


The Duchess and the Detective

by TheresaWritesStuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Class Differences, F/M, Inspired by Anastasia (1997), Slow Burn, one sided Jim Moriarty/Molly Hooper sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheresaWritesStuff/pseuds/TheresaWritesStuff
Summary: Revolution strikes the small European country of Bartovia when the Cerceau family is overthrown by a bloody coup. Years later, it is rumored that the youngest daughter, Duchess Margareta, is still alive. Looking to find their way out of Bartovia to a better life, the Holmes brothers concoct a plan to find a girl to play the part of the long lost royal in order to collect the generous reward offered by her godmother. Just when their plan seems hopeless, they meet the spitting image of the lost duchess, a young amnesiac named Molly who is in search of a family she can't remember, a necklace her only clue to her mysterious past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this au for months now and I finally have the time to attempt it! It's going to be a bit of a mix of the 1997 movie and the broadway musical plots, and of course some elements from the BBC Sherlock mixed in. Still playing around with it. Let me know what you think in the comments :)
> 
> The usual disclaimers:  
> Unbeta'd all mistakes are mine  
> I own nothing

The snow swirled in eddies across the roads of the Bartovian countryside as a young Mycroft Holmes trudged along, his little brother in tow.

“Quit playing in the drifts, Sherlock,” he grumbled, fighting against an icy headache with each step.

“Why? It's fun,” Sherlock protested, paying his brother's words little mind as he continued to skip in and out of the snowbanks, kicking the light powder into the air in rebellious delight.

“Because you’re getting snow in your shoes and I will not be held responsible if you lose a toe to frostbite.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks to consider this.

“Do I still get to keep the toe afterward?” he asked, skipping easily back into stride with him.

 _Oh to be eight again…_ Mycroft exhaled out his nose. “Doubtful. _And_ irrelevant as we couldn’t afford someone to patch you up anyhow. Twenty crown to our name, you’d be lucky if I could track down a butcher with a half decent cleaver to do the job.”

“Fifteen, actually…”Sherlock mumbled.

It was Mycroft’s turn to stop. “...Come again?”

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “Fifteen crown,” he repeated, keeping his eyes obstinately on the road ahead.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “That money has to last us until we reach the factory in Conanborough, Sherlock. And that’s _if_ they’ll hire us…” He exhaled in frustration. “What did you spend it on? Marbles? Gingernuts?”

“It was a surprise for your birthday,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft felt his heart tighten remorsefully, his ire slipping. He kept his expression stern, however, stooping to level his eyes with his brother’s, holding his hand out expectantly.

Sherlock met his gaze, an impish smirk creeping into his expression as he shook his head. “It’s not your birthday yet.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him, having had quite enough, palm still extended.

“Fine…” Sherlock produced a small cloth wrapped parcel from his pocket and handed it to him.

Mycroft unwrapped the rag, revealing a heat stained pocket watch.  

“Do you like it?” Sherlock wondered nervously.

Mycroft’s expression soften despite himself. “Yes I do. A very thoughtful gift. Even if it does mean skipping a few breakfasts,” he added pointedly.

Sherlock grinned. “Turn it over. There’s a cool engraving on the front.”

Mycroft obliged. His brow furrowed as he tried to make out the insignia. He felt his stomach drop as recognition set in.

“Sherlock...Where did you get this?”

“There was a man selling a bunch of stuff outside the inn last week. Pretty neat, right?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft looked over his shoulder and settled a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “This is the Crest of Musgrave.”

Sherlock nodded. “Uhuh! The man said it belonged to some rich snob, or something like that, and I knew right then that it was perfect for you because you like that sort of thing.”

“Even so, we shouldn't have it.”

“Why not? I thought you liked it.”

“I do. But the man who sold it to you..." He took a breath, searching for the right way to explain things. "Sherlock, there are people out there who have dangerous ideas about how they think the world should be. Ideas that are apt to get themselves and those around them in a mess of trouble. That's why it's better to just keep your head down and put in an honest day's work. Safer for the both of us that way.”

“And boringer,” Sherlock sulked.

“More boring,” Mycroft corrected, “I'm afraid that's just the way life is.”

Sherlock lifted his chin, meeting his brother’s eyes stubbornly. “Well if you don't want it, I'll sell it.”

The sound of hoof falls against the frozen dirt road caused both boys’ heads to snap upward.

“Sherlock--” Mycroft warned. But it was too late, as Sherlock snatched the watch from his hand and was already running as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him towards the oncoming carriage.

The horses reared back, hooves flailing as their driver pulled them to a halt.

“What’s the big idea, boy?!” the driver demanded. “I ought to tan your hide for pulling a stunt like that!”

“I just wanted to see if you’d buy this pocket watch,” Sherlock explained, throwing his hands up defensively.

“Sir!” Mycroft interrupted, catching up, thankfully, before the driver could descend from his perch to bring the horse’s whip down on his brother’s head.

“You’ll have to forgive the boy, sir. He was only trying to help,” Mycroft continued breathlessly, the cold air stinging his throat. Attempting to smooth the situation over, he chuckled, “A bit of a dullard, I’m afraid, but he attempts to make up for it with enthusiasm, bless him.”

“Am not, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed, scrunching his nose indignantly.

Mycroft placed a protective hand on his shoulder, begging him silently to be quiet. “Sorry to have troubled you, sir.”

The driver grunted. His eyes drifted to the shining object that had started this whole fiasco, intrigued.

“What’s this about a pocket watch, now?” he asked gruffly, pulling it from Sherlock’s grasp.

“It’s mine,” Mycroft replied quickly, trying to retrieve the watch before the man could get a good look at it. “We’ve fallen on some hard times…”

The driver raised a suspicious eyebrow as he turned the watch over. “Musgraves?”

“Y-yes.” Mycroft swallowed.

“Awful what happened there. A real shame,” the driver tisked. “How’d this little bobble end up with you lot, exactly?”

Mycroft drew himself up a little taller in indignation, thinking quickly. “I’ll have you know it was a gift from my father when I began university.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I had just returned home on the night of the fire. My young charge and I barely made it out alive. It’s all I have left, good sir, if you don’t mind...”

“That’s a pretty story, lad. But Lord Musgraves didn’t have a son. Why don’t you and your charge run along now and I won’t ask questions how you’s really got ahold of this watch?”

“Well, naturally _you_ wouldn’t have heard of me,” Mycroft bluffed. “I can understand your doubts, sir, but I assure you that the watch _is_ mine, so if you would kindly give it back--”

“Not a chance. Now shove off before I turn in the both of you to--”

“Harold, what on earth is the trouble? At this rate, her majesty shall arrive days before us and that does not bode well for you, I can assure you--Oh...Why, Lord Mycroft, I hardly recognized you! What a fortuitous surprise this is.” A young woman emerged from inside the carriage, greeting him warmly with a knowing smile.

“You know this man, Lady Anthea?” the driver, Harold, asked, straightening his coat as he eyed Mycroft warily.

“Why, of course! Her ladyship and I spent a month in Musgraves not three summers ago. Lord Mycroft and I became well acquainted in that time.”

She descended gracefully from the carriage step, expertly keeping her hem out of the snow as she placed a friendly gloved hand on her driver’s arm. “Oh, but that was before your employment with her ladyship, wasn’t it? You mustn’t blame yourself for not knowing better, Harold. The elder Lord Musgraves, rest his soul, kept the existence of his son a bit of a secret from the public due to some, shall we say, indelicate circumstances. With Lady Eurus’ inheritance at stake and the politics of Lady Musgrave’s family ties...You understand, I’m sure, Harold. But honorable man that he was, Lord Musgraves quietly provided for his son as a man of his stature should…” She turned to him sorrowfully, as if remembering herself. “Oh, I do hope you’ll excuse my speaking so freely, Lord Mycroft. We were so shocked when we received the tragic news, and now to find you here, of all places... You can only imagine my relief at seeing you again. But oh, what hardships you have faced, to be sure…”

Mycroft blinked several times, awestruck by the yarn this clever angel before him had spun from thin air, thanking everything both under and beyond the stars for her keen ears and merciful fabrications.

“My hardships have been made worth the while, for they’ve brought me here to meet you, my lady,” he said after a moment, collecting himself enough to bow.

This response seemed to please her as her smile grew coy.

Mycroft noticed Sherlock roll his eyes and gave him a subtle nudge to behave.

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow as if they were the old friends she claimed them to be. “You must forgive our dear Harold for his ignorance, Lord Mycroft,” she insisted. “Let us escort you to the palace. My ladyship is to visit her brother and surely it is time we return the hospitality that your family has bestowed so graciously over the years.”

“Uh-y-yes. Of course. Thank you, Lady Anthea,” Mycroft managed.

“Think nothing of it,” she dismissed with a wave. “After all, what are friends for?”

Turning back to Harold, she chided, “Best that we move along again, wouldn’t you agree, Harold?”

Sherlock seized the opportunity to snatch the watch from the dumbstruck carriage driver before walking proudly after Mycroft and Lady Anthea.

“Sticking to keeping our heads down and honest work, are we?” Sherlock asked quietly as Mycroft assisted Lady Anthea into the carriage.

Mycroft took back the watch, placing it in his pocket as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Honesty hasn’t gotten us much in life,” he whispered with a sigh. “I say we see where this takes us.”

He hoisted Sherlock into the carriage before climbing inside to sit beside him.

Lady Anthea across from them situated her skirts daintily before giving the carriage wall a knock, instrucking Harold to press on.

The guise of the fluttering socialite was dropped the instant the carriage began to roll as Lady Anthea picked up her book from the seat beside her and began to read with only a self satisfied nod towards them in acknowledgment.

Sherlock looked at him curiously to which he could only shrug in reply, almost afraid to speak lest he wake himself from this strange dream.

Sherlock did not share his hesitance. “Got any more books in here?”

She reached below her seat, producing a leather bound novel, her eyes barely leaving her own page. “Will Treasure Island do for the present?”

“For the present.” Sherlock nodded, eagerly taking the book.

Mycroft shot him a reprimanding look.

“Thank you,” Sherlock added quietly.

Lady Anthea hummed in reply, turning the page.

They rode in silence, the winter landscape passing them by through the carriage window.

Mycroft fiddled with the cuff of his coat sleeve. Moth eaten. A touch too short...

He made himself fold his hands in his lap. Calloused. Soot embedded under his nails. A stark contrast to the lady across from him.

Finally, he summoned the courage to break the silence. 

Shifting in his seat to sit up straighter, he began, “Lady Anthea...” 

“Yes?” she replied, sounding amused, still not glancing up from her book.

He cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t take this as my being ungrateful, for I am truly grateful...but I feel I must ask…”

“You are wondering why I lied for you?” she surmised.

“Yes.” Mycroft sighed a bit in relief.

She lowered her book to meet his eyes, considering her reply.

Finally she answered, “I found you intriguing.”

“Intriguing,” he repeated, wondering at her meaning.

“Yes,” she replied. “And after all...what is life without a little intrigue?”

He smiled slightly, accepting this was all the answer he would receive for now. “Then I suppose I must endeavor to remain so. For both of our sakes. Perhaps we shall even become as well acquainted as we have feigned to be.”

“Perhaps we shall.” She smiled and offered him a book from beneath her. “Lord Mycroft.”

“Lady Anthea,” he replied, accepting the novel.

He sat back in his seat, stealing a glance at her before opening the volume.

_So much for an honest life._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
> 
> Sherlock looked up in surprise to find King Henry’s youngest daughter, Duchess Margareta, settling in to kneel beside him in her pajamas.
> 
> “I don’t think you’re supposed to be down here,” he reminded her, returning his attention to the dancers below, a bit put out at his hiding spot having been discovered.
> 
> “Neither are you,” she replied, undeterred. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”
> 
> Sherlock glanced over at her again, sizing up the notorious young royal. Her offer seemed genuine, and having heard tales of her legendary stubbornness, he realized the odds of her leaving him alone were rather slim.
> 
> Begrudgingly, he repositioned his lanky limbs to make room for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short update, but an update none the less.  
> Unbeta'd. Will fix mistakes as I find them.  
> Thoughts and comments are always appreciated!

3 YEARS LATER

 

The palace overflowed with dignitaries from far and wide, all gathered together to celebrate Bartovia’s 400th anniversary. The ballroom glittered with candlelight as the court swirled about in their finery, unaware of the young eyes watching the opulent splendor from a hidden corner of the stairway.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock looked up in surprise to find King Henry’s youngest daughter, Duchess Margareta, settling in to kneel beside him in her pajamas.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be down here,” he reminded her, returning his attention to the dancers below, a bit put out at his hiding spot having been discovered.

“Neither are you,” she replied, undeterred. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Sherlock glanced over at her again, sizing up the notorious young royal. Her offer seemed genuine, and having heard tales of her legendary stubbornness, he realized the odds of her leaving him alone were rather slim. 

Begrudgingly, he repositioned his lanky limbs to make room for her.

The dancers turned and twirled below them in a sea of flowing fabric and polished uniforms as they watched in an odd, companionable silence.

“Who would you wager is the best dancer?” he wondered after a time.

“Mother says it is unladylike to gamble,” Margareta answered primly with a tilt of her chin, but her eyes gave away her interest.

“It’s just an expression,” he chuckled. “Come on. Who is it? Surely you would know.”

She smiled proudly. “My father. No contest.”

He hummed in reply, neither agreeing or disagreeing with her. Even he knew better than to argue the King’s abilities of any nature with a member of the royal family.

Unable to resist the allure of a debate, however, he prompted. “Second best then. Your family members excluded.”

This gave her pause.

“Lord Charles is an agile man for his age, I suppose. Then again, Lady Rogers is always effortlessly graceful. Lady Anthea I’ve heard is an exceptional dancer, though she hardly ever dances with anyone but Lord Mycroft…”

“And he’s far too occupied with the dessert table,” Sherlock added with a grin.

Margareta giggled. 

“Oh, now that’s not entirely fair. I think Lord Mycroft is a fine dancer,” a woman chimed in, sounding rather amused. “He certainly dances around the truth enough.”

They both looked up in shock. Standing behind them was the king's sister, Princess Martha.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” she asked Margareta.

“Nicholas and Anna get to stay up,” Margareta pointed out with an indignant pout.

“Nicholas and Anna are older, my sweet,” the elder Princess reminded her, placing a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. 

“Not by  _ that _ much…” Margareta muttered. She lifted her brown eyes to meet her aunt’s, looking as pitiful as she could muster. “Are you gonna tell on us, Aunt Martha?”

“Tattle on my favorite godchild? Never!” Princess Martha laughed. “But it is time to get some rest. Both of you,” she added pointedly.

She pulled a small candy from the pocket of her gown and handed it to Sherlock, motioning towards the servants quarters.

He managed a clumsy sort of bow in stunned silence. 

“Come along. I’ll tell you a story,” she offered, taking Margareta by the hand.

“Can you tell me about your latest trip to London?” Margareta asked eagerly.

“If you wish,” Princess Martha agreed.

Margareta turned to wave at him, smiling brightly as she and her aunt meandered down the hall.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

Pocketing the sweet, he ducked into the hidden hall and began to make his way towards the servants quarters. But before he went more than a few steps he felt a tug of curiosity stop him.

Instead of heading toward the kitchen, he found himself walking in the opposite direction toward the royal suites, hopeful that he might be able to overhear part of the story for himself.

 

“...and then we took in the sunset along the Westminster Bridge,” Martha said, braiding Margareta’s hair as she sat in her lap.

“You make London sound positively magical,” Margareta sighed. “What is it that you love most about there?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Martha considered. “I suppose what I like most about London is the way that I feel when I’m there. Like anything is possible. Like I can be whoever I choose to be.”

“Do you not feel that way here? We could talk to Papa. I’m sure he could fix it,” Margareta offered, looking up at her in concern. 

“It’s a bit complicated...Oh but don’t you worry your little head, my sweet. A day spent with you is like a thousand days in London.” Martha hugged her reassuringly.

“...Do you really have to leave again?” Margareta wondered sadly.

“I’m afraid so. But I got you a little something to make it easier.”

Margareta perked up instantly. “What is it?”

Martha chuckled as she shifted to reach inside her pocket. “Something special I had made just for you.”

She pulled out a small music box and wound it, coaxing out a familiar melody.

“It’s our lullabye!” Margareta gasped excitedly.

“So that you can still hear it, even when I’m away. And this is what winds it,” she explained, holding out a necklace- a simple pendant on a chain. “I got one for both of us. I can wear mine and it will remind me of you. You can wear yours and it will remind you of me. And someday we can both wear them when we are…”

“Together...in London” Margareta read aloud as she examined the back of the necklace. “Really?!”

Margareta squealed and threw her arms around her aunt who laughed and embraced her in return. 

“I thought I might find you in here,” a deep voice chuckled from the doorway.

“Papa!” Margareta greeted excitedly, scampering from the bed to meet him. “Papa look what Aunt Martha gave me! Isn’t it beautiful? I want to wear it right now. Put it on me, Papa! Please!”

“Oh would you look at that,” he replied, humoring his daughter and examining the trinket she excitedly was shoving toward him. “‘Together in London’? My, wouldn’t that be something.”

“Papa, I want to wear it now,” Margareta insisted impatiently. 

He chuckled, obliging her. “Very well...There you are. Absolutely lovely. Now...back to sleep. Your Aunt and I must return to the party.”

“Actually, Henry, I’m a bit tired from the party. I thought I might retire and read for a while,” Martha corrected.

“Can we read together?” Margareta asked hopefully. “I’m not tired in the least. Far too exciting to sleep with a party going on after all. Another story sounds like just the ticket, wouldn’t you agree, Papa?”

She looked up at him with a doe eyed grin, her hands clasped together in front of her. Martha joined her, mimicking her expression.

“Alright,” he agreed finally, sending Margareta and her aunt into a fit of excited giggles. “Just the one. But first, your Aunt and I need to talk,” he insisted.

“I’ll fetch a long one from the library,” Martha promised, kissing her cheek as she stood.

Henry kissed his daughter’s forehead and nodded his head towards her bed in a silent goodnight. 

He ushered Martha out the door and closed it behind them.

Once they were alone, he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, Martha, you can’t keep making her promises like that.”

“And why not? The children have traveled before. There’s no reason that you all should not be able to visit as soon as this summer.” Martha folded her arms determinedly.

“As if any of us would stay under the same roof as that filthy  _ commoner _ of yours,” he scoffed.

“Frank Hudson is a good man, Henry. He may be of common birth, but he far more noble than anyone of the snobs in your court. You’d see that if you’d give him the chance,” Martha insisted.

“He is beneath you,” Henry replied simply.

She balled her hands tight, pressing her lips together. “I don’t see it that way...”

He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Martha, you are a Cerceau. There are responsibilities we have that come with our position in life.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want this life anymore,” she replied.

He looked at her, uncomprehending. “What are you saying?”

“I didn’t choose this, Henry. I did not choose the responsibilities of being a Cerceau. And if my title means that I cannot choose for myself who I spend my life with then then I do not want it.”

It was his turn to cross his arms as he came toe to toe with her. “You would renounce the Cerceau name...for  _ him _ ? You would renounce Bartovia?”

“What is Bartovia to me, Henry?” Martha laughed bitterly. “ _ You _ are the King. Your children the heirs to the throne. I am of little consequence. I shall always love this country, but if I must choose between Bartovia and Frank I will choose Frank. Without hesitation.”

“Then you have made your decision?” he replied, seeming to already know the answer.

She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “If you are making me choose. Yes.”

He nodded solemnly, stepping away “...Then I can no longer embrace you as my sister.”

“Henry…” she breathed in disbelief.

He refused to look at her. “Read as many stories with Margareta as you like tonight, but by tomorrow morning you will leave this palace and this family for good.”

“Surely you cannot mean that...” she reached a hand toward him.

“Can’t I?” he snapped, looking back at her seething. “If you do not wish to carry the burdens of being a member of this family, fine. But you will not receive it’s benefits either.”

He turned and walked away from her without a second glance.

Martha could hardly believe her ears. She clenched her fists at her side, holding back tears.

Just then a panel of the wall beside her opened, sending the servant boy from before tumbling to the floor, obviously having been eavesdropping from the servants hall. 

He looked up at her sheepishly, all limbs and messy raven hair. “So…” he said casually. “Who’s Frank?”

In any other situation, his youthful pluck would have made her smile. 

“My fiance,” she replied softly, looking off after her brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we are starting to get into some familiar territory plot wise! Part of this chapter is a little bit intense but nothing graphic violence wise. Just a heads up. 
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Will fix them as I find them because I'm impatient and like to post things as soon as I finish them...  
> Also smoking isn't cool kids. This part and here on out is set in the 20's and Wiggins is working his way off some stuff... doesn't mean he's making good life choices.
> 
> Comments always appreciated!

It seemed like ages to Margareta for Aunt Martha to return. She played with her music box to pass the time but had to stop, finding herself growing sleepy at the tune.

Finally the door clicked open.

“I, um, I couldn’t decide on just one, so I thought we might read all of your favorites,” Aunt Martha said as she carried a stack of books in her arms.

Margareta giggled at the sight.

“Let’s read this one first,” she suggested, selecting the second book from the top. It was the largest of the stack.

“Excellent choice.”

Martha climbed up on the bed next to Margareta and kissed the top of her head before opening the volume.

Her voice caught in her throat as she began “Once upon a time…”

“Aunt Martha, are you alright?” Margareta asked.

Aunt Martha smiled softly. “I’m just going to miss you, my sweet,” she replied, finally. She hugged her tightly. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Margareta said, returning the hug.

Aunt Martha cleared her throat. “Now where was I? Ah yes… Once upon a time, in a far away land…”

They read until they both drifted off to sleep, curled up together with the book in their lap…

 

The sound of distant screams woke them from their slumber.

“Aunt Martha?” Margareta asked, her voice quavering. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know...Stay right here. I’ll be right back,” Aunt Martha instructed, picking her way through the moonlit room. Before she could reach the door the sound of gunshots echoed through the hallway.

Margareta squeaked, clinging to her Aunt as she retreated from the door.

Aunt Martha held her close, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “We’ll be alright, my sweet...Here. Help me push this wardrobe against the door.”

They pushed against the heavy wooden armoire, only coaxing it a few inches across the floor.

Another round of gunshots, this time sounding even closer.

A panel in the wall swung wide suddenly, causing Margareta and her aunt to nearly jump out of their skin.

Margareta sighed in relief as she saw the curly haired servant boy from the stairs stumble in.

“It’s you!”

“They’re on their way. You still have time if you go through the servants halls,” he gasped, catching his breath.

“Thank you, young man,” Aunt Martha sighed gratefully. She grabbed a coat for Margareta from the armoire and quickly put it on her.

“Come on, you have to go,” the boy coaxed, ushering them through the passage in the wall.

“Wait! My music box!” Margareta exclaimed turning back around.

“I’ll get it and catch up with you. Just go!” he assured her, his eyes pleading.

She nodded shakily. “Okay.”

Aunt Martha took her hand as the boy closed the panel behind them, pulling her along through the dark corridor as fast as their feet could carry them.

Every few steps Margareta looked back over her shoulder hoping to see him and praying that he would be alright.

Lady Anthea was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairwell near the kitchen.

“They’ve blocked the carriage paths to the roads, my Ladyship. We’ll have to go on foot to the train station,” she explained, hurriedly helping Aunt Martha into her coat and shoving a suitcase into her hands.

She shoved the two of them out the side door and onto the snow covered lawn.

Checking that the coast was clear, they followed close behind Lady Anthea, Margareta gripping Aunt Martha’s hand tightly.

The icy wind whipped straight through Margareta’s nightgown, stinging her legs with every step.  

Still, they pressed on, sneaking through the hedges and out the gardener’s gate out into the city.

By the time they reached the platform, Margareta’s toes were going numb, her slippers soaked through with snow.

The whistle squealed as the train began to chug forward.

“We’re almost there,” Lady Anthea urged.

She tossed their bags onto the train and jumped on. She reached back for Aunt Martha and Margaret to do the same.

Just as she went to make the leap, Margareta stumbled, her hand slipping from Aunt Martha’s grasp.

She felt her legs give way as she tumbled down like a rag doll, her head hitting hard against the platform.

“Margareta!” Aunt Martha cried out, reaching back for her. “Margareta!!!”

A man restrained Aunt Martha from jumping on the tracks, the train gaining speed.

Margareta reached a hand after them, shivering weakly as her eyes drifted shut, losing consciousness.

 

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

 

The city streets bustled with people, coming alive with activity as the crowds gathered for the morning markets.

It was his favorite time of day, Sherlock thought with a smile to his audience, drawing his bow across the strings of his battered violin with a flourish. He took a bow to the subdued smattering of applause, sweeping an arm towards his cap on the street in front of him.

A few onlookers towards the front whom he was able to address directly tossed some small coins into the hat while most went about their business, having to move along with their day.

He gathered up his hat and nodded to the children on the street, beckoning his little network to follow him into the alleyway.  

“They all left in a hurry. Should have played a longer song, Sherlock. Would have gotten a chance at another couple of pockets,” Archie groused as he and his crew revealed their haul.

“Never safe to stay idle for too long in Bartovia,” Sherlock reminded them with a chuckle. “No, no. There is only time for work. Free hands lead to free thoughts and those, as we all know, are _entirely_ too dangerous.”

The children laughed as Sherlock divvied up their looted goods amongst them, tossing in his own earnings as well.

“Finished corrupting the city’s youth, brother mine?”

Most of the children scattered as the elder Holmes made his into the alley.

“For today at least.” Sherlock smirked as his brother tried to maneuver around the gaggle of urchins rushing past him. “But there’s always tomorrow,” he added with a wink toward Archie, still standing stalwartly at his elbow.

“You’re dismissed, Archibald,” Mycroft said with a business like nod to the boy. “Sherlock and I have other business to attend to this morning.”

Archie looked up at Sherlock, only taking marching orders from the younger Holmes.

Sherlock nodded, smiling to himself as he could practically hear Mycroft roll his eyes.

“One moment, Arch,” he said, remembering the object in his pocket. He retrieved it from inside his coat and tossed it to his little protege. “Found this for you the other day.”

Archie looked down at the little bound book with delight. “Introduction to chemistry? Thanks, Sherlock!”

“Just no experimenting in your grandmother’s kitchen. That tea she likes is hard to come by these days. I can’t afford to buy my way back into her good graces every week,” Sherlock instructed.

“Got it.” Archie nodded excitedly and scampered off, holding the book tightly in his hands.

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t suppose you saved any of your busking earnings for our breakfast?” he sighed doubtfully, starting down the alley toward the street.

“Way ahead of you.” Sherlock fell into stride with him and produced a crust of old bread from his coat pocket.

Mycroft grimaced but took it from him. “I should never have let you save me from that firing squad.”

“Well I’m sure I could arrange something if you like,” Sherlock replied cheekily. “Oh comrad!”

Mycroft grabbed hold of Sherlock’s outstretched arm waving at the uniformed officer across the square, yanking it back down to his side. “Shut up,” he huffed, pulling him along towards the cart down the street.

“Anything of interest for us today, gentlemen?” Mycroft asked casually, looking over the produce on the cart.

“Let’s see…” The cart’s owner, Lestrade, pulled a small notepad from his pocket. “Little Hilda is looking for her uncle’s lost pet parrot. The shopkeep on Second street suspects his stock boy is sleeping with his wife. Mostly people are just looking to get out of the country.”

“Everyone is looking to get out of the country,” Sherlock muttered, shining an apple on his coat.

Lestraded cleared his throat and held out a hand expectantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, dramatically placing the money in Lestrade’s palm.

“Who’s the new ringmaster?” he asked, gesturing with the apple toward the military officer strutting by, talking with some of the lower level uniforms on their way to the capitol building.

“Shhh! That’s General Moriarty,” the shoe shineman, Anderson hushed, making himself busy as he reorganized the polishes on the stand next to Lestrade’s.

“ _General_ is it?” Sherlock asked, feigning reverence. “A bit young for that sort of rank, even for this regime, don’t you think?”

“Newly promoted,” Lestrade explained. “Word is he’s been rising through the ranks the past few years and is making the most of it. One of Magnussen’s favorites.”

Anderson nodded. “I heard he’s absolutely ruthless. Even the other officers are afraid of him. I’d watch your backs if I were in your shoes. He’s the type that could put an end to your little operation by this time next week.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, sizing up their potential adversary.

A car backfired, startling a woman passing by the general on the street causing her to spill the contents of her purse. The general stopped to help her retrieve her belongings, visibly struggling as things went rolling in every direction around him.

“Sure. He’s a villainous mastermind,” Sherlock replied flippantly, taking a bite of his apple. “There isn’t much of an operation left these days anyway. Not with dull cases like the ones Lestrade’s been getting us lately.”

“I thought the parrot might at least take up the better part of an afternoon,” Lestrade protested halfheartedly.

“Boring…” Sherlock sighed.

Anderson leaned over conspiratorially. “Well if you’re looking for something interesting I heard--”

“No, Phil,” Lestrade cut off.

“What? It could be true,” Anderson said defensively.  

“It’s not,” Lestrade assured him.

“But it could be,” Anderson insisted, lifting a finger as if that helped his argument.

“What could be true?” Mycroft asked, already regretting asking.

Anderson looked around before leaning in further, keeping his voice hushed. “I heard a rumor that one of the Cerceau daughter’s is _still alive_. Princess Margareta.”

“Technically her title was ‘grand duchess’, or something like that, I think,” Lestrade speculated.

Anderson sighed in exasperation. “Whatever she was called, she may still be out there somewhere.”

“After all these years, that’s highly unlikely,” Mycroft asserted.

“See? I told you it was just a fantasy.” Lestrade gestured to Mycroft, feeling his point validated.

“Her expatriate godmother doesn’t seem to think so. She is offering a huge reward to anyone who can find Margareta and reunite them in London.”

“How much of a reward?” Sherlock wondered, perking up, his eyes alight.

Mycroft groaned “Oh no...I know that look.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ve got an idea…”

 

********

 

A loud bang erupted behind her, causing her to jump, the contents of her bag spilling out onto the street.

 _Wonderful… Now she was going to be late._ She knelt, taking a deep breath to steady herself as she tried to gather her things.

“Allow me!” An officer offered, scrambling to retrieve the roll of gaus that was unraveling its way towards traffic.

“Thank you,” she replied, stuffing her things back into her bag as quickly as she could.

“My pleasure...Molly,” he flashed her a smile, reading the embroidery she had added to her shabby handkerchief before handing it back to her. “It was only a car, you know. Those violent days are behind us now, wouldn’t you say?”

“It just startled me is all...I have an interview. I guess I was in my own head. That’s all,” Molly explained, getting to her feet.

“That’s certainly understandable. Perhaps you’d like some tea to calm your nerves? I could escort you to the tea shop just down the way,” he offered.

“No. Thank you, officer, but I really must be going.” She pulled her bag up onto her shoulder.

“Jim, please.”

“Jim,” she repeated with a polite nod. “I really do have to go. I can’t be late…but thank you so much for your help.”

“Of course,” he replied. “Good luck on your interview, Molly.”

Pulling her bag tighter to herself, she jogged down the street in hopes of making up the lost time.

When she finally reached the clinic, a surly old woman was closing the door.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Molly called, running up to her breathlessly.

“Sorry, honey, the positions have been filled,” the old woman grunted.

“All of them? Surely you could always use another hand. I can do more than just nursing. I’ve studied quite a bit. I could assist with preparing the instruments or--”

“Try the hospital in Conanborough. They’re taking students,” the woman cut her off.

“But I’m not a student,” Molly protested. “I could clean the floors or do the laundry. Please, I’ve almost saved enough for a ticket to London. I’m a good worker, I promise.”

“Good for you, dear,” she congratulated smarmily. “But we’re still not hiring any more people. Try showing up on time at the next place, eh?”

With that the old woman slammed the door in her face.

Molly stood staring at the door in disbelief. She let out a groan, kicking her boot into the snow, sending flakes flying in the air in her frustration.

“Back to the drawing board. Again…” she sighed to herself.

As she started to walk away she heard someone from the alcove along the side of the clinic.

“Pst! Yeah you. Come ‘ere,” a lanky sandy haired man beckoned, cigarette between his fingers.

Curious, Molly approached, staying out of reach but close enough to speak with him.

“You said you you’re trying to get somewhere?” he asked quietly, taking a drag.

“Yes! London,” Molly replied.

“I know a guy who can help with that.” He exhaled out, smoke mingling with his own breath in the cold air. “Sherlock Holmes. He and his brother work out of the old palace. Try there next Friday.”

“Sherlock Holmes at the old palace,” Molly repeated. “And he can get me a way to London?”

“Definitely. Tell ‘im Wiggins sent you. But just him. Anyone else asks, you didn’t hear it from me, yeah?”

“Sure.” Molly nodded.

He finished his cigarette and tipped his hat to her before strolling away down the road.

Molly blinked after him, not quite sure of what to make of the encounter.

She shook her head and dug around in her bag for a scrap of paper to write down the odd tip.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she scrolled. “Hm…”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly finds herself at the old palace and meets the mysterious Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooh! I feel like I've been trying to get this chapter written and posted for ages. It hasn't really been that long. I'm just impatient.  
> And because I'm impatient I'm going to post this pretty much right after finishing writing it!  
> Enjoy!!!  
> The usual. Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Will attempt to fix them as I find them.  
> Love, love, love hearing from you in the comments!  
> Okay go read :D

Private Collins fidgeted at his post outside General Magnussen’s office, releasing a steadying breath as he tried to calm his nerves.

“First time?” the private next to him asked. There were four of them there in total.

Collins nodded giving him a shaky smile. “That obvious, huh?”

“Relax. It’s an easy post. All we really do is open the door when the boss has an appointment. And they have to get past the guys out front, two sets of guards inside, _and_ Miss Hawkins before they get anywhere near us.”

“It’s not so much them as it is who’s on the other side of this door that I’m worried about,” Collins confessed. “...Is it true what they say? You know, about the boss having…” he glanced around the empty hallway, “ _abilities_? Dark magic that won him the revolution?”

His compatriot shook his head. “Nah, all that rubbish is just stories people tell their kids at night so they’ll behave. Magnussen was just some bloke who got rich blackmailing filthy nobles. And when the King kicked him out of court for it, he used what he’d learned and overthrew the tyrant to get back at him. Some might call it underhanded. I call it resourceful. That doesn’t make him some sort of warlock, though.”

“I dunno. You ever been in the same room with the guy?” another private piped up. “He’s got a strange energy about him. My Gran is from the north country. She says a rise to power like that costs you your soul and from seeing him up close just the once?” He shivered. “I wouldn’t doubt it… But dark forces or not, it’s safer working for him in here than it is roughing it out there.”

“I heard he has an amulet that traps the souls of the executed and grants him immortality.”

Collins blanched as the other two swiveled their heads towards the speaker before snapping to attention.

“General Moriarty, sir! W-we, uh…” the Private next to him stammered.

General Moriarty grinned, removing his disguise. “Relax boys. I had a little time to kill before my two o’clock with the boss. Thought I’d catch up on the hot gossip down the ranks.” He strolled past them, giving them a wink. “This has been fun. We should do it again some time.”

Collins managed to close his mouth and stand up straight to open the door for the general.

“S-sir? You-you, uh…”

“Of course I won’t mention this to Magnussen, Private. Don’t you worry...” his smile turned mischievous as he straightened his jacket. “I’m sure he already knows.”

Jim chuckled to himself as the private audibly gulped before entering Magnussen’s office.

“What’s got you so cheery this fine afternoon?” Magnussen wondered from behind his desk.

“Just having a little fun,” Jim replied, settling himself into the chair across from him. “And to what do I owe the honor of being summoned today? Don’t tell me I’m up for promotion again already?”

“I have an assignment for you,” Magnussen informed him, his voice soft and businesslike as always despite Jim’s quips. “I’m rather impressed with your field record. You have a knack for keeping the people in line. And taking... _decisive_ action when they fail to comply.”

Jim shrugged modestly. “Just a good shepherd herding the sheep.”

“Yes, well…I’m afraid some of our _sheep_ are beginning to stray. No doubt you are aware of the rumors circulating through town about the return of Margareta Cerceau.”

“A nostalgic fantasy entertained by the dimwitted. A bit below my paygrade, sir,” Jim scoffed.

“Nostalgia is a powerful thing, Jim. Not everyone is as fortunate as you to have grown up knowing what it is to fight for the cause. Your father fought faithfully for years. Instilled it in you as you grew. Gave you the fire to succeed in our new world. People don’t appreciate that world as you do.” Magnussen stood from his desk to gaze out the window overlooking the town square.

“Our cause has lost its luster in the eyes of the people. It is no longer new and exciting. Just another part of their dull existence.... They’ve forgotten what it was like under the Cerceaus. What it was they fought against.” He turned to look at Jim.

“Nostalgia is what makes them forgetful. It feeds their fantasies sweet nothings until their brains rot. It could be the undoing of all that we have built if the people are given a symbol of those fantasies to rally around... I need you to put an end to this Margareta business. Remind the people of this great new nation we have built for them, and what their place is in it. You’re the only one I trust to do it properly. Do you understand?”

Jim nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Satisfied with this, Magnussen turned back to watch over the square.

He stood to leave, having receive his mission.

“And Jim?” Magnussen added. “Should anyone rise up, claiming to be Margareta…”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Jim assured him.

Magnussen smiled softly. “I’m sure you will.”

***************

Mycroft rubbed his temples as yet another girl exited the stage. “How many does that make?”

“Thirty four,” Lestrade answered, tallying the list. “There are a few more left, but I am running out of leads for you. You both have been blacklisted by every madam in town for trying to ‘swindle their girls away.’”

“However shall we go on?” Mycroft muttered. “What about the little theater uptown?”

“I checked there on Wednesday. They all wanted payment upfront,” Sherlock’s runner, John, interjected.

“Of course they did. Nevermind the life of luxury they would lead if they could pull off the role,” Mycroft grumbled.

“Not everyone is as accustomed to living a lie as we are,” Sherlock reminded him, scratching another name off the list. “Next!”

Sherlock stifled a chuckle as John’s wife, Mary, sauntered onto the stage in an oversized fur coat. She dropped it salaciously to the floor, revealing her prominent baby bump. “Aunt Martha, it’s me! Margareta,” she declared in an over the top husky voice, giving them a little shimmy.

It was the shimmy that made both John and Sherlock lose it.

Mycroft merely sighed, rolling his eyes. He set about organizing headshots into neat stacks, ignoring the two men doubled over with laughter next to him. “Thank you, Mary. Send in the next girl on your way out.”

“Oh, Mycroft, you’re no fun,” she teased, picking up her coat. “Thought you boys could use a laugh. You’ve been at this for days. Ever think you might be being a bit picky?”

“No pickier than her Highness will be, I can assure you,” Mycroft sighed.

“Say, what about Irene Adler?” John suggested, pulling himself together. “She still owes you a favor, doesn’t she?”

Sherlock shook his head. “We settled that debt when she assisted in smuggling the Schwartzes out of the country a few months ago. She’s causing her own trouble somewhere off the coast of Spain now, last I heard. And besides, as talented in deception as Irene is, we need someone who can also look the part as well as play it.”

John tilted his head in question.

“The Cerceaus all had brown eyes. Irene’s are blue,” Mycroft explained.

John nodded, understanding. “Not as easy to change as a hairstyle and a new dress, is it?”

“So we’ll keep looking. There’s bound to be a Margareta out there somewhere,” Greg offered encouragingly.

“The trouble is finding her…” Mycroft picked up his notes and adjusted his reading glasses. “Next!”

********

Molly stared up at the abandoned palace in awe. Even with it’s rusted gates and boarded up windows, it stretched toward the sky with a stately grandeur of years long gone by.

She checked her scribbled notes again as she paced along the edge of the building. The outer gate had been easy enough, but for the life of her she could not find an entrance to the palace itself. Surely this had to be the place…

She stopped as she heard a rustling come from the overgrown hedges.

“Meow!”

Out trotted a tiny tabby kitten from underneath the greenery.

“Well hello there,” Molly greeted, kneeling to offer her hand as it nuzzled against her boots. “Where did you come from?”

It purred, butting its head against her hand affectionately. Before she could scoop up the tiny creature, it scampered out in front of her toward the palace, slipping under the boards into the darkness inside.

“Hey!” Molly called out, following after it. She peeked through the slats in the planks but could not see where it had gone. “Kitty...Here kitty, kitty…I can’t feed you if I can’t reach you, you know.”

An insistent ‘meow’ came from inside.

Molly shook her head. She rubbed her hands together and grabbed hold of the old boards, pulling with all her strength until they gave way, sending her stumbling back.

Another meow sounded from inside, as if encouraging her to follow.

Brushing herself off, she stepped inside.

Blinking against the darkness, Molly picked her way carefully through the dim corridor.

“Hello?” She called out.

Her voice echoed through the hall.

No answer...

As her eyes adjusted, she could see the floor was covered in richly colored carpeting. Small slats of light seeped through the boards on the windows, sending specks of dust dancing upwards toward the high ceilings.

The light caught on an ornate mirror on the wall, drawing her attention.

There were swirling patterns painted in its frame and throughout the hall, turning this way and that, folding in on each other like vines. Or was it feathers...

She reached out a hand, absently tracing the pattern with her fingers.

She couldn’t place it, but there was something comforting about it. Something familiar…

But it couldn’t possibly be, Molly reminded herself, pressing onward.

“Hello…” she called again. “Is anyone here?”

Again no answer.

Perhaps this is what she got for taking advice from strangers in alleyways...

“Oh!” she breathed out as the hall opened up to a grand ballroom.

Her new feline friend trotted up beside her, chirping happily before flopping down on the dusty marble floor, showing his belly.

“Would you just look at this place…” she marveled.

The kitten sat up and stretched, as if bowing deeply to her.

She smiled, curtseying playfully with her patched together skirt as if it were a stunning ball gown.  She twirled around, indulging in the fantasy for a moment.

She almost felt as if she should hold her breath, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the room, left untouched for so long.

Painted faces stared down at her from portraits high on the walls. Some seemed stiff, others sweet as they watched her. Ghosts of a bygone era…

She climbed the staircase in hopes of a better view.

When she reached the landing, she looked out over the vast room and for a moment, she could almost swear she could hear the echoes of the orchestra, see the dancers in their swirling skirts and finery.

It was all like something from a dream…

Just beyond the stairs, a large portrait hung on the walls. It was newer than all the rest. A family portrait. The royal family, undoubtedly.

Molly tilted her head, stepping gingerly toward it. There was something about them that she couldn’t shake.

She gazed up at them, mesmerized as she studied each face.

The young prince standing proud, shoulders back and head held high. His sister beside him, the elder of the girls, poised and demure. Behind them, the queen, regal and strong and stunning in her jewels. Opposite her, the King, standing like a mountain in his polished medals, his face stern and commanding under a neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes seemed kind...

At his elbow stood the youngest of the children. Her posture was prim for a child so young. Yet there was no trace of uncertainty in her. Somewhere behind her eyes, she seemed to hold an amusing secret. Molly found herself wondering what it was…

Outside, Sherlock and Mycroft returned from the theater, no closer to their goal then before.

“And so concludes another day wasted,” Mycroft declared.

“You’re just grouchy because we worked through lunch.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you, Mycroft, our Margareta is out there somewhere, right under our noses. I can feel it! We just need to keep looking.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “Perhaps another look at Greg’s list over a cup of tea will do some good…” he acquiesced.

Mycroft swore under his breath as they rounded the corner, coming across the broken boards on the south door.

“This better not be one of your little networkers,” Mycroft grumbled, raising his umbrella defensively like a weapon.

“It’s not. Their work is cleaner than this,” Sherlock assured him.

He tiptoed his way inside, assessing the space. Noting the disturbed dust in the carpet, he motioned for Mycroft to follow, padding towards the ballroom.

They both relaxed slightly as they saw a petite woman standing alone at the top of the stairs, looking up at the portrait of the royal family.

“Gallery is closed, you know,” Sherlock quipped, announcing their presence as he made his way across the floor towards her. “And as I don’t remember scheduling any private tours, I’m going to have to ask what you’re doing in he-here…”

His thoughts sputtered and trailed off when the woman turned around to face them, her wide brown eyes identical to the ones in the portrait behind her.

“Mycroft are you seeing this?” he whispered.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “It seems we can forgo that list after all.”

Molly cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

The man with the mop of dark curls smirked as he ascended the stairs, his long limbs carrying him upward with ease. “Perhaps. That depends on who is looking for him…”

“My name is Molly. Mr. Wiggins said you could help me get to London,” Molly replied.

“That explains quite a bit,” the older man sniffed. As he climbed the stairs, the kitten came to investigate his boot laces, getting playfully and hopelessly underfoot.

“Good heavens, what are you doing?” he demanded of the little feline, scooping it up to get it out of his way. The kitten seized the opportunity to climb up the arm of his heavy wool coat and onto his shoulders.

“Looks like you made a friend, Mycroft,” Sherlock chuckled.

Mycroft glared up at him as he struggled to extricate the set of tiny claws from his overcoat.

Sherlock turned back to her, asking casually, “Molly, was it? Is there a last name that goes with that?”

“I...I don’t know, actually. My earliest memories are of waking up in a hospital when I was ten,” she explained, fiddling with the chain of her necklace around her throat.

“Interesting...Nothing before that?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but no.”

“And why London?” Sherlock wondered, leaning against the railing.

Molly hesitated before removing her necklace to show it to him. “They said I was wearing this when I was brought to the hospital. It's the only thing I have from my life before I went to the orphanage.”

“ _Together in London…_ ” Sherlock read aloud, inspecting the little metal pendant.

“So...can you help me?” Molly asked, hopeful.

Sherlock thought a moment before handing the necklace back to her. “Sorry. Normally I’d love to take your case. It’s a solid nine. But I’m afraid our caseload is all booked up at the moment.”

“I’m sorry. My case?” Molly blinked in confusion. “I just need travel papers. I thought that was what you do…I can pay you if that’s the issue. I don’t have much but I’m good for it.”

He waved a hand, dismissing her offer. “I’m a detective. Of sorts,” he explained. “People come to me looking for information, answers, solutions, the hard to come by…I find it for them. Now a case like yours is intriguing, _mysterious_ even, I’ll grant you.  Not to mention convenient, as my brother and I are also going to London. In fact, we’ve got three tickets ready to go. However, I’m afraid our third ticket is for _Margareta._ ”

He gestured behind them towards the portrait.

“We are going to reunite the grand duchess with her godmother,” Mycroft added. He had managed to remove the kitten from his coat and was now absently stroking its ears as it sat contentedly on the wide banister.

“Oh…” Molly nodded.

Mycroft squinted at her, sizing her up before leaning over to whisper something in his brother’s ear.

“What? No! Don’t be ridiculous. Her mouth is far to small,” Sherlock argued.

“Excuse me?!” Molly gaped, flabbergasted.

“Nothing. Forgive me. My brother just suggested, well... given that your lack of memories from your past lines up time wise with when she disappeared, there is the chance that _you_ could be the grand duchess,” Sherlock replied skeptically. “Then again…”

He began to pace around her, looking her over, seeming to reconsider.

“You may have a point, Mycroft. She’s the same physical type. The same brown eyes.”

“The Cerceau eyes,” Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock nodded, inspecting her a bit more closely. “She’s got Queen Louise’s chin, King Henry’s hair…”

Molly swatted at Sherlock’s hand as he tried to inspect one of her locks.

He caught it before it could land, arching an eyebrow. “And her Aunt Martha’s hands…”

“Are you done vulturing me?” Molly huffed, retrieving her hand.

“You must admit, it is a possibility,” Sherlock reasoned.

“What? That _I’m_ the grand duchess? That’s insane,” Molly scoffed.

“Is it though?” Sherlock wondered, turning her gently towards the royal portrait. “You said it yourself you don’t remember anything about your life before the orphanage.”

“No one knows what happened to her,” Mycroft added, joining them in front of the painting. “You’re looking for family in London. Her only family is in London.”

“You’ve got to admit, the resemblance is remarkable when you really look at the portrait,” Sherlock admitted. “You never thought about the possibility…”

Molly looked at them in disbelief. “That I could be royalty? _Me_?”

They both nodded.

“Well, I don’t know! It’s sort of hard to imagine yourself as a duchess when you’re sleeping on a damp floor…” Molly laughed incredulously.

Looking back up at the painted faces before her made her soften a bit, allowing herself to be a bit wistful. “But sure...What lonely little girl wouldn’t want to hope that she’s a princess?”

“And somewhere out there, one girl is…” Mycroft assured her.

“Wish we could help. But that ticket _is_ for Margareta. Good luck, though! Feel free to let yourself out the way you came in,” Sherlock said, steering his brother back down the stairs.

Molly looked up at the portrait again, running her thumb over the pendant in her hand, considering what they’d said. But no. It was ridiculous…

As she turned to go, another portrait came into view along the next wall of the alcove, this one of the King and his sister, Martha. The one who now lived in London…

The Princess smiled down at her warmly, brown eyes shining from the canvas.

Molly hummed thoughtfully, reaching up to touch the portrait.

 

“Not going to let her in on our little plan?” Mycroft murmured under his breath as he and Sherlock descended the stairs.

Sherlock shook his head. “She doesn’t care about the money. She just wants a way to London. Why give away a third of the reward?”

“I’m just saying we could have talked her up a little more,” Mycroft argued.

“Just trust me,” Sherlock whispered. “A little slower...Three...two…one...”

“Sherlock, wait!” Molly called out.

“Hm? Did you say something?” Sherlock asked innocently, turning back.

Molly picked up the kitten and carried it down the stairs with her.

“If I don’t remember who I am, then who is to say I couldn’t be the lost princess or duchess or whatever she was, right?”

“Right.” Sherlock nodded, following along with her train of thought.

“But if I come with you to London we could know for sure. And if it turns out that I’m not Margareta, surely her highness would know right away and it is all just an honest mistake,” Molly continued.

“Mhm, sure…” Sherlock hummed.

“But if, in fact, you are Margareta, you’ll finally have the family and the answers you’ve been searching for,” Mycroft pointed out.

“And either way, it gets you to London,” Sherlock added.

“Right,” Molly agreed.

“It seems we have ourselves a deal then.” Sherlock offered her his hand.

“It’s a deal.” Molly took his hand and shook it firmly.

“Meet us at this address tomorrow afternoon and we will sort out the details,” Mycroft instructed, leading her away and masking a smirk as Sherlock shook out his hand after Molly’s strong grip. He scribbled a quick note and handed it to her.

“Tomorrow. I’ll be there.” Molly nodded eagerly. “Thank you.”

“No, no,” Mycroft protested, giving her a bow. “Thank you, my lady.”

Molly giggled despite herself and curtsied slightly, stumbling a bit.

“We’ll work on that,” Mycroft assured her.

“Right…” Molly laughed.

She gave them a little wave with her free hand, and somehow managed to keep herself from skipping until she was out of sight in the hallway.

“Told you we’d find her.” Sherlock grinned.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No time to gloat, brother mine. We’ve got work to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An impromptu tea with Jim leads Molly to an unexpected conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally broke through my writers block for this chapter! This one draws more from the musical and from my own spin on the story. The journey to London begins next chapter!  
> Until then...  
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.  
> Love hearing your thoughts in the comments!

Molly strolled through the market the next morning like she was walking on air.

She'd hardly slept a wink, yet she did not feel tired in the slightest, the feeling of excitement and nervous anticipation fluttering in her stomach, fueling her along.

If this all worked out as she hoped, she would know at last who her family was. Who she really was...

“Careful. A smile like that could rival the sun.”

The lighthearted comment drew her back to reality as Molly looked up to see a pressed uniform and a familiar smile.

“Hi! Um, Jim, right?” she greeted cheerfully, laughing at herself for getting so caught up in her own daydreaming as she adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

“Indeed. And it’s Molly, if memory serves, yes?” he confirmed.

Molly nodded. “Very good! I’m surprised you remembered.”

“Well it isn’t every day that I get to rescue the contents of a young ladies handbag,” he chucked. “I never did get to buy you that tea. I don’t suppose you could spare a moment now, could you? The shop on the corner really is quite lovely.”

“Um, yeah, sure. That sounds nice, actually. Thanks,” Molly replied.

“The pleasure is mine,” he insisted. “Shall we?”

He nodded his head for her to follow as he began strolling easily towards the shop.

Falling into step with her, he inquired, “So tell me, how did the interview go?”

Molly ducked her head slightly, having nearly forgotten about it. “Oh, um...I didn’t get it. They had already filled the position,” she confessed. “But it’s alright. It wasn’t really for me. Something better is coming along, though.”

“That’s certainly a refreshing outlook,” he replied, opening the door for her.

The shopkeeper quickly escorted them to a table nestled towards the back of the tea house with a pleasant view of the market square from the window. Another brought their tea tray almost the moment Molly sat down.

“My personal favorite. I hope you don’t mind,” he offered, settling casually into the chair across from her.

“No. It looks lovely. Just as you said,” she assured him.

He smiled thoughtfully, pouring them each a cup.

They sat in silence for a moment before Molly commented “I can see why you like this spot. The square looks beautiful from here. All the people moving about their morning, the promises of the day still ahead of them.”

He hummed in reply. “That’s one way of looking at it...You have quite the positive disposition, Miss Molly.”

“Makes the day a little easier to face, I suppose.” Molly shrugged. After a beat she added, “You must come here often. The service is, um, exceptional.”

Jim grinned to himself. “The uniform helps,” he admitted. “I do read the occasional report here when I need a break from the office. Better lighting and all.”

He took a sip of his tea, setting his cup back down between his hands thoughtfully before he continued.

“I had a peculiar little tidbit come across my desk yesterday. A woman matching your description was reportedly seen outside of the old palace. That wouldn’t happen to have been you, would it?”

Molly blinked, surprised by the question. “Um, it was,” she answered honestly.

“What were you doing there?” he wondered.

His expression was that of a carefully neutral curiosity, but Molly could tell this was no longer just a friendly conversation.

“I was admiring the architecture, if you must know,” she replied. A half truth suddenly felt safer, Mr. Wiggins request for discretion coming to mind. “It was a pleasant afternoon, and the grounds were quieter than on the street. At the time I didn’t see any harm in it; there was no one to disturb what with the place being boarded up...Am I in some sort of trouble?”

He studied her face carefully before releasing a sigh, his shoulder softening. “No. Forgive me for asking. With these rumors about the Cerceau girl circulating, I’m afraid I must take certain precautions. I would, however, urge you to take your afternoon strolls elsewhere in the future.”

“I see.” Molly nodded, taking a slow sip of her tea.

Setting it back in its saucer, she ventured lightly, “Is a little gossip really that dangerous? After all, she’s just one person. What harm is it in the grand scheme of things if she did survive?”

His dark eyes met hers seriously.

“I would be careful who you say things like that to, Molly,” he warned, his voice soft and even. “I understand on the surface these rumors may not seem like much. However, the ideas behind them--behind _her_ \--and what they stand for? That is what uprisings are built on.”

He took another sip of his tea before he asked, “Do you remember what it was like during the revolution?”

Molly shook her head. “Not really, no.”

“I remember it. I _lived_ it. I learned what a revolution truly meant, with all its glories and hardships, saw the truth behind the fairytale, and let me tell you, Molly, no one got away…”

He folded his hands on the table as he stared out the window, his gaze distant. “I was there on the night they took the palace. My father was one of Magnussen’s lieutenants. I remember he had cleaned his pistols at table while we ate. To savor a few more moments with us before being called to duty, he’d said. Time had gotten away from us when his fellow men came to call. In his haste, he left one of his pistols behind by mistake. When I realized it was there with us instead of with him I knew I had to sneak out to give it to him. Took it as my duty to my father, to the revolution. And so once the opportunity presented itself, that’s just what I did. It was so cold that night…I remember the metal in my hands as I fought my way through the crowds to find him. There were shouts, and shots, and screams everywhere…

When I finally broke through, I saw my father making his way across the lawn, and a palace guard aiming to shoot him from behind. In that moment, I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe. The gun fired in my hand. I saw my father’s would be attacker fall to the ground…And I was no longer a boy.”

Molly stared wide eyed, unsure how to respond. She considered taking his hand in comfort but thought better of it as Jim continued.

He shook his head slightly. “I already knew, but I remember I asked my father if the man was dead… My father placed his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye. The he said ‘that’s what people do…’” Jim smiled slightly to himself at the memory. “It was simple when he put it like that. He told me that I’d done well for the revolution that day. That I’d made him proud. Then he took the gun from me and sent me home to watch over my mother. I remember as I turned to go I saw Magnussen through the crowd. He stood tall and saluted me like I was one of his soldiers. And soon enough...I was.”

His smile turned cheeky for a moment as he turned to her again, gesturing to his polished uniform. Yet it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“A revolution is a simple thing when you break it down, Molly. One idea versus another. A duty to uphold. Simple. The king and his household had to die that night in order to make way for the world we live in today. It's what the people wanted. It’s what they deserved. Simple...It’s best that we set aside idle fantasies and remember who we are.”

Molly felt something twist in her gut, sparking inside her at his words.

“I agree,” she replied with a calm she did not feel, meeting his gaze.

“That’s good to hear.” He smiled and took another sip from his cup.

“I’m afraid I must be going. Thank you for the tea.” Molly offered him a half smile as she collected her things.

“Of course,” Jim replied.

She stood to leave but before she could walk more than a few paces Jim interjected, “And Molly?”

She swallowed, turning to face him.

“I do hope you’ll be careful and remember what I’ve said. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

There was a weight to his gaze that she couldn’t quite define.

With a final nod to each other, she left the shop.

Jim took another sip of his tea, eyes following her well after she’d gone.

What was it about her that he was missing?

He could tell she hadn’t been entirely open with him, yet she did not seem the type accustomed to deceit. No. Not with those wide eyes of hers…

Yet it was those brown eyes that gave him pause. If only he could say why that was.

He smirked to himself, sitting back in his chair as he poured himself another cup.

Perhaps he was just growing fond of her.

*******

Sherlock played on his violin as he flitted from one task to another in the crowded back room of Angelo’s restaurant, one of his many boltholes and their base of operations for the evening.

“Are you finished gathering material on the royal family?” he asked Mycroft, tapping the stack of books next to his brother with his bow.

“Hardly,” Mycroft sighed. “But it will have to do. I don’t think we could fit anymore in our luggage.”

“Your travel papers, Sherlock, as requested. I’ll just need to take a photograph of your lady companion and you’ll be all set,” Mary announced as she joined them, producing her handiwork.

“Excellent!” Sherlock tucked his instrument under his arm as he looked over the forged documents. “Molly should be here soon. We’ve got a lot to go over.”

“Let’s hope she is a fast learner,” Mycroft agreed, standing to inspect the papers as well.

Sherlock paused as he looked over Molly’s papers, eyes resting on the name Mary had provided. “Hooper?”

“A nod to the Cerceau family hidden in translation, I presume,” Mycroft surmised. “French for _hoop._ Scholars of old proclaimed it a sign that their reign would be unending. But it seems translations alone are no longer a guarantee these days.”

“Really, Mary, must you always look for an excuse to be clever?” Sherlock wondered, teasingly.

“I thought it a fitting homage,” she replied proudly. “Unless you would prefer Holmes?”

“Come on now, Mary, the girl’s got enough on her plate as it is without having to play at being part of the Holmes family as well, don’t you think?” Lestrade laughed, bringing over the latest reports from his network.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, handing the travel papers back to Mary and setting his instrument on the desk. “Hooper will do just fine.”

He looked up to see Angelo leading Molly into the back room.

“Ah! Perfect timing. Molly, right this way.”

She smiled shyly, taking in the room as he ushered her in.

“Molly, I’d like to introduce you to the best smuggler this side of the Atlantic, Mary Watson.”

“Sherlock,” Mary admonished lightheartedly, rolling her eyes. She shrugged modestly. “It is true, though. Pleasure to meet you, Molly.”

“Likewise,” Molly replied.

“Mary is helping us smooth over the little matter of your travel papers, what with the issue of your uncertain identity. Travel officials like having last names on official documents. Pesky details like that,” Sherlock explained. He continued with the introductions, “You know Mycroft, of course. And this is Lestrade. He handles bringing our cases to us. Lestrade, this is Molly.”

Lestrade shook himself, having been staring at Molly like he’d seen a ghost. “Sorry, hi. It’s nice to meet you...Wow, Sherlock, you weren’t kidding…” He shook his head again, reminding himself of his manners. “Forgive me, miss. I used to work as a guard in the palace when I was a much younger man. You...you just look so much like them. Like her...She was just a kid back then. Just this little spitfire in ribbons. Poor thing never got to grow up...But then here you are.”

Lestrade looked at her in awe, the line between laughter and tears becoming blurry. “I’m sorry. I...I was supposed to be there that awful night. But I had a date. A friend of mine covered my shift so I could take a gal to the fair that was passing through the next town over. I always wondered if I’d been there...If I’d been at my post like I ought to have been if it would have...if I could have...I should have been there. I’m so sorry, I truly am.”

Mary leaned over, watching in surprised silence along with the two Holmes brothers.

“He never talks about his time at the palace,” she whispered.

“I know,” Mycroft replied in amazement.

Molly reached out hesitantly to place a comforting hand on Lestrade’s arm, giving him a soft smile. “Did you at least get your kiss goodnight?”

Lestrade chuckled, a smile replacing his gloom. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Then it seems you were where you were supposed to be. And besides, had you been there that night, I might not have had the pleasure to meeting you now.”

Lestrade nodded, considering this. 

“Thank you, miss,” he replied gratefully. He cleared his throat. “I’ve, um, gotta go check in on Archie's crew. You boys take good care of this one.”

He gave her a half sort of bow as he took his leave.

“Right…” Sherlock said, changing the subject. “Well, now that your resemblance to the royal family is confirmed, let’s move on to your study materials.”

He handed her the stack of books Mycroft had accumulated.

“Studying what exactly?” Molly puffed under the strain.

“Members and history of Cerceau family, etiquette, dancing, french, all things Margareta would have known,” Mycroft listed.

“Is all that really necessary?” Molly wondered.

“Don’t think of it as studying. Think of it as...reacquainting yourself with your past. Something in one of these books could be the key to unlocking your memories,” Sherlock suggested.

“But do start looking through them as soon as possible. We’ve got a lot to cover on our trip to London,” Mycroft added.

“Alright,” Molly agreed, placing the books back on the table before opening her bag. From it, she removed a ball of fluff, placing it on the table before packing the books into where it had been resting.

The kitten yawned and stretched on the table, flexing his paws.

“You brought the cat?” Sherlock gawped.

“His name is Toby, and yes I brought him. I wanted to start getting him used to traveling,” Molly replied matter of factly.

“You’re not bringing that thing with us,” Sherlock insisted.

“Of course I am! I’m not going to leave him behind to starve. He's just a kitten. Someone’s got to take care of him,” Molly insisted.

“So let someone else take him!” Sherlock rubbed his temple. “I can’t believe we’re having this discussion. Mycroft, tell her she can’t bring the cat.”

Mycroft looked up from scratching Toby’s belly,  his fluffy paws kneading the air contentedly.

“Hm? Well, yes, I suppose it would make the trip a touch more complicated,” Mycroft admitted reluctantly.

Sherlock smirked down at her, triumphant.

Molly met his eyes with a stubborn glare. “I’m not leaving Toby behind,” she insisted.

“Well he’s not coming with us,” Sherlock retorted back, just as adamantly.

He crossed his arms, his eyes meeting hers, locked in a battle of wills.

“Oh for heaven’s sakes, the kitten can come with me and John,” Mary huffed.

“What?” Molly asked.

“My husband John and I are leaving for London tonight, which should put us at least a day ahead of you three. We can take care of Toby until you arrive,” Mary replied.

Molly smiled, touched by the offer. “You’d do that?”

“Mary, no,” Sherlock balked.

“Sherlock, you said it yourself. I’m the best smuggler this side of the Atlantic. And not only that, I’m pregnant. Which means I get to do whatever I please.” Mary flashed him a playful grin. “Besides...Look at these wittle paws.”

She scooped up Toby in her arms, presenting said paws for Sherlock to admire.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but closed it, accepting his defeat.

Mary’s smile widened. “Come along, Molly. John is set up in the next room. We’ll get your picture taken for your travel papers.”

Molly let Mary nudge her in toward the door of their makeshift studio.

Mary turned back to Sherlock, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Are you certain you don’t want me to change it to Holmes? You two would look awfully cute together.”

Sherlock scoffed and waved her off.

Once the women were out of the room, he turned to Mycroft. “You were absolutely no help.”

Mycroft shrugged noncommittally before making himself busy looking over the reports Lestrade had brought them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly engage in a battle for the last word as our trio sets off on an exciting train ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're off! The journey is gaining steam now...  
> This one's a bit longer of a chapter. Hopefully it makes up for the wait.  
> Love hearing your thoughts, etc. in the comments :)  
> The usual: Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Will hopefully find and fix them as I see them. (It's inevitable that I find a few after posting)  
> Okay, enjoy!!!

A few days later, Jim sat at his desk going over his morning reports when a knock sounded quietly against his office door.

“It’s open,” he called out, not bothering to look up from his paperwork.

A hesitant Private Collins poked his head in the door. “T-the latest reports, sir,” he announced.

“Collins!” Jim greeted warmly. “They’ve got you running reports now. You’re moving up in the world.”

“I suppose so, sir,” Collins replied, managing a nervous sort of smile, still rooted in the doorway.

Jim looked up from his work expectantly.

“On the desk will do just fine, Private. Unless you think I need the exercise,” he quipped.

“Sorry, sir.”

Collins willed himself across the room to set the files on his desk.

Just as he did so, the phone on Jim’s desk rang.

“One moment, Private.” Jim held up a finger before answering the phone. “Hello.”

“General Moriarty?” the caller asked.

“Well it isn’t the Vatican.” He flashed Collins a grin before he answered more seriously, “Yes, of course it is. What do you want?”

“You know that woman you wanted us to keep tabs on?”

“Yes, what about her? Get to the point,” he instructed, flipping through the papers on his desk.

“She, um...It seems that she has left the country, sir.”

“SAY THAT AGAIN!”

Private Collins flinched at Jim’s sudden outburst.

Jim stood, leaning a fist on the desk as he gripped the phone in his other hand. “Say that again, and know that if you’re wrong, I will find you and I will _skin_ you.”

He could practically hear the phone rattling in their hand on the other end.

“S-she left this morning on a train headed for France, sir. She was traveling with two men. Suspected smugglers, sir...We-we got a tip that they were auditioning women to...to pose as Princess Margareta.”

“So you thought why not let them take a holiday, is that it?” Jim snarked. He set his jaw, straightening to his full height. “Have your team arrest them at the next station on their route  and bring. them. _Back._ Understood?”

“Yessir.”

“Good.”

Jim hung up the phone and eased back into his chair.

“Idiots…” he muttered to himself.

He looked up to see Private Collins still standing at his desk, frozen in fear.

“You’re dismissed, Private,” Jim informed him.

Collins nodded, somehow remembering to salute before he fled the office.

Jim shook his head and let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“What mess have you gotten into, Molly?”

 

*******

The train rumbled through the snowy foothills of the mountains as Molly and the Holmes brothers settled into their compartment for the journey ahead.

“This is exciting!” Molly remarked cheerily as she removed her coat.

“Yes, the wonders of locomotive travel...” Sherlock grumbled, still rebelling against wakefulness. “ _Thank you,_ Mary Watson, for selecting the earliest train out of Bartovia imaginable.”

“It’s easier than walking,” Mycroft reminded him, shooting him a reprimanding look over the letter he was composing.

“At least walking doesn’t require such a strict time table,” Sherlock muttered, shoving his suitcase into the overhead to emphasize his displeasure.

He looked over to see Molly on her tiptoes, straining to reach the compartment to stow her coat and scarf.

“Give them here,” Sherlock instructed, taking them from her. He scrunched his nose as he fumbled with the mass of Molly’s oversized scarf.

“Who needs a scarf this long? It’s a tripping hazard,” he groused.

“I get cold easily,” Molly defended. “And it’s fine if you wrap it properly.”

“Oh, well if you wrap it properly, of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that,” Sherlock huffed as he plopped down into the available seat beside her. He sat back and closed his eyes, seemingly intent on ignoring them for the time being.

Molly rolled her eyes.

“Not much of a morning person, is he?” she murmured to Mycroft.

Mycroft chuckled. “You have no idea.”

She smiled sympathetically and sat back in her seat to watch the countryside fly past their window.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so much as past the city limits, let alone outside of the country. The thought of it was exhilarating!

...And daunting all at the same time.

Her hand drifted to the chain of her necklace as she pondered what lay ahead of her.

A city that had for so long only been a distant fantasy.

The chance to finally having an answer as to who she really was.

The chance to reconnect with her long lost family. With Princess Martha. Her aunt. Her _godmother_.

That is if she really was Margareta like they thought...

But what if she wasn't? Then what?

And even if she was Margareta, what would Martha think of her? What would she say? What if Martha was disappointed with her. What if...

“Could you not think so loudly, Molly?” Sherlock sighed suddenly.

Molly turned to look at him, surprised by the comment.

“I wasn’t aware you were telepathic,” she replied flippantly.

“No such thing. Just highly observant,” he informed her.

He opened his eyes and let out a breath. “I can understand if you’re nervous. But Mycroft and I have this covered. Remember, you’re a grand duchess. So start acting like one! Sit up straight. And stop fiddling with that thing!”

Molly slouched further down into her seat. “And how do you know what a grand duchess does and doesn’t do?” she challenged.

“I’ve made it my business to know,” he replied with a smirk.

“Oh…” Molly turned back to look out the window.

“Look, I’m only trying to help,” Sherlock said, softening his tone in attempt to smooth things over.

Molly sat up and turned to him.

“Sherlock?” she asked sweetly. “Do you really think I’m royalty?”

“You know I do,” he replied smarmily.

“Then stop bossing me around!”

She gave him a saccharine smile before turning sharply back toward the window.

Sherlock threw his hands up in defeat. “I’m going to go get a coffee,” he announced, marching out of the compartment towards the dining car.  

Mycroft smirked as he pulled a small journal from his pocket, jotting down a few more marks in Molly’s favor for his own personal score of this ongoing verbal sparring match against his brother.

He had to admit, she had an impressive lead thus far, which made things all the more entertaining for him.

 

After a while, Mycroft got up to stretch his legs, leaving Molly alone with her reading.

There was a soft knock on the compartment door before Sherlock entered, looking more awake and penitent than he had before.

He sat down across from her, fingers laced in front of him before he began carefully, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Well I think we did too,” Molly agreed, glancing up from her book. “And I appreciate your apology.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s face contorted at her response. “ _Apology?_ I didn’t say anything about an apology. I just mean that-”

Molly cut him off, setting her book down. “Please. Just... don’t say anymore, alright? You’re only going to upset me.”

“Fine. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be quiet if you will,” Sherlock retorted, reclining back in his seat, putting his feet up across the compartment onto the bench beside her.

“Fine. I’ll be quiet,” Molly replied, crossing her arms as she did the same.

“Fine,” he agreed.

“ _Fine_ ,” she echoed.

They rode in silence, both playing at ignoring the other as the quiet grew heavier with each rhythmic rumble of the tracks.

Molly was the first to break.

“So do you think you’ll miss it?” she wondered.

“What? Your talking?” Sherlock smirked.

“ _No_!” Molly rolled her eyes. “Bartovia.”

He joined her in watching the scenery pass by their window.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, punctuating his response.

Molly sat up, curious. “But it was your home.”

“It was a place I once lived. Nothing more,” Sherlock replied matter of factly. “In my line of work, you can’t afford to be too sentimental.”

Molly nodded thoughtfully.

“So do you think you’ll make London your _true_ home?”

“Why the obsession with homes?” he asked, growing tired of the subject.

“Well, for one thing, it’s something most normal people _want,”_ she huffed, standing up. “And for another, it’s--”

She attempted to push past his lanky limbs that blocked her way, but he refused to budge. “Home is…”

_Belonging. Family. Love… all things she had never had._

But why should she have to explain that to him?

“Would you just…” She attempted to push past him again, but now he was just being obstinate.

“What?” he asked innocently, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of her.

“Just...ugh, forget it!”

She stepped over his legs and made for the door.

Just as she reached it, Mycroft returned, startled at finding her standing in the doorway as he opened it.

“Thank goodness you’re back,” Molly sighed. “Will you please teach your brother some _manners!?_ "

"What did you do?" Mycroft demanded.

"Me?! She's the one who started it!" Sherlock insisted.

Molly let out a derisive laugh. "I need some air."

Mycroft watched as she slammed the door behind her.

"What did I tell you about flirting on the job?" he scolded, rubbing his temple.

" _Flirting?"_ Sherlock scoffed. "With that insufferable little slip of a woman?! You've got to be kidding."

"So you don't find her attractive?" Mycroft sat down, raising a knowing eyebrow at his brother.

"Molly? Attractive? Really, Mycroft, now is not the time to be losing your edge," Sherlock rebuffed.

"It is hardly an unreasonable assumption," Mycroft replied, opening his newspaper.

"Well you assumed wrong," Sherlock insisted, storming out of the compartment.

"Attractive," he muttered to himself. "Ridiculous."

 

Sherlock was more than happy to retreat to the dining car. At least there he could pass the time by deducing details about the other passengers, instead of having to sit in that little compartment with _her._

Stubborn, difficult, ungrateful, _ridiculous_ woman…

He let out a sigh.

This was going to be a long trip…

The train pulled to a stop at the station as he finished his tea.

From his window he could see the platform where friends and families greeted each other warmly while others bid farewell.

At least there were not many stops like this on their way. He couldn’t wait until they got to London so they could collect their reward money and be done with this whole endeavor...

Sherlock felt his stomach drop as he saw four uniformed officers approach the ticketmaster.

He edged himself toward the door of the car to listen in, careful to remain out of sight.

“--orders to search the train. We have reason to suspect there are three fugitives on board. Two brothers travelling with a petite brunette woman--”

_Molly!_

That was all Sherlock needed to hear.

He rushed back to their compartment as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself.

“We’ve been followed,” he announced, closing the door behind himself.

“Followed?” Mycroft repeated.

“Four of Magnussen’s lackies are on the platform talking to the ticketmaster. They are planning on searching the train. We need to move. Quickly!” Sherlock peered out the  glass panel of the compartment door out into the hallway, checking that the coast was clear.

“I’ll get our bags. You wake Molly. Perhaps we can still sneak off and arrange a different route,” Mycroft instructed, gathering up their things.

Just then, the train began to move forward.

“Or perhaps not…” he corrected himself.

“They must have arranged to search the train en route,” Sherlock surmised. “Planning on keeping us in cuffs until the next station, no doubt.”

“Well, at least the trains will still run on time,” Mycroft replied cheekily. Then an idea came to him. “The baggage car. We can hide out in there and buy ourselves some time.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Sherlock agreed.

As Mycroft shuffled down the hall, Sherlock leaned down to wake Molly, who lay contently dozing, curled up on the bench.

“Molly. Hey…” he whispered, shaking her shoulder.

Her arm flew out instinctively at the contact, striking him wildly in the face.

“Ow!” Sherlock yelped.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” Molly apologized, blinking the sleep from her eyes as she sat up. “Oh, it’s you…”

Sherlock held the bridge of his now very tender nose. “Sorry to disappoint. Come on. We’ve gotta go.”

He handed her things to her and ushered her into the hallway.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Change of scenery. I’d just hate for you to be forced to mingle with these commoners any longer, your grace,” Sherlock replied.

“And yet I’m still stuck with you,” Molly ribbed.

Sherlock made a face at her in response, quickly wincing at the effort.

“I think you broke my nose,” he complained, propelling her swiftly down the hall with a light hand at her back, looking over his shoulder all the while.

“Oh don’t be such a baby,” Molly tisked.

Sherlock let up when they reached the baggage car, setting down their things with a sigh of relief.

“There. This is much better!” he declared satisfactorily.

Mycroft rubbed his hands for warmth as he shivered against the cold. “She’ll freeze in here.”

“She’ll be fine. She’s got her scarf.” Sherlock smirked.

“The baggage car?” Molly wondered, raising an eyebrow at the two quibbling brothers. “Don’t tell me something has gone amiss, Detective.”

“Of course not!” Sherlock assured her quickly. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Uh-huh...Because you’ve got this covered,” Molly quoted, unconvinced.  

She smiled to herself as she set down her bags.

Relenting a bit, she offered, “Let me take a look at your nose.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied curtly.

“I worked in a hospital when I was younger. I know what to look for. Let me see,” she insisted, taking a step closer to inspect the damage she’d inflicted.

“I said it’s fine.” Sherlock turned his head stubbornly.

“You also said it was broken not two minutes ago,” Molly reminded him.

Softening her tone, she added, “Please?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but accommodated the request.

Molly stepped closer, looking him over.

“I really did hit you, didn’t I?” she remarked with a sympathetic wince. “You’ll be happy to know your latest assessment was the correct one. You’ll be just fine.”

“So long as we don’t make a habit of you slapping me,” Sherlock quipped.

Molly couldn’t help but smile at that.

She remembered herself and took a step back, putting some distance between them once more.

“Now, do either of your care to fill me in on why we are really in here?”

Mycroft and Sherlock shared a glance.

“...It seems that we’ve been followed by the authorities,” Sherlock admitted. “I overheard four officers back at the station arranging to search the train to arrest the three of us.”

“Oh...” Molly nodded. “Because of the rumors about Margareta. Because of…Because I...” Molly sat down on one of the crates that cluttered the car.

Collecting herself, she asked resolutely, “So what’s the plan?”

“We lay low in here until the next stop,” Mycroft replied. Under his breath he added, “If we don’t become icicles before then.”

“Won’t they come looking for us in here?” Molly wondered.

Sherlock came and sat beside her, offering her a comforting smile. “I doubt it. They didn’t exactly seem like the brightest bunch to me.”

Molly smiled in return.

The moment was short lived, however, as shouts erupted from inside the next train car, followed by a commotion of things falling to the floor and the muffled orders of one of the officers.

“I want every inch of this train searched. The boss wants them in custody by this time yesterday, understood?” he bellowed.

“Then again, today is full of surprises,” Sherlock sighed, getting to his feet.

He began to pace as he thought...“We could barricade the door.”

“Buying ourselves a few extra minutes together at the next station. We’d be sitting ducks,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Not if we’re not in here at the next station,” Sherlock murmured, formulating an idea.

The clatter of slamming doors and suitcases echoed from the next car as Sherlock made his way for the loading door.

“And just how exactly are we going to manage that?” Mycroft demanded.

“We’ll jump!”

“I’m sorry, did he say ‘ _jump?’_ ” Molly balked, hardly believing her ears.

Sherlock slid the door open, revealing the gaping crevasse below them from underneath a bridge.

“By all means, after you.” Molly waved a hand invitingly toward the raveen.

“Well, I’m open to suggestions,” Sherlock retorted.

Molly looked out along the track, her hair flying in the wind, the cold air stinging her cheeks as the train flew along the mountainside. Her eyes lit up as she spied something up ahead.

“I’ve got an idea.”

She made her way across the car, opening the door they had entered through.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock slid the luggage door shut and followed after her, stumbling slightly as the train rounded a bend.

“Uncoupling the car,” Molly replied matter of factly.

Reclining her upper body out over the edge of the car, she called out, “Mycroft, look for the brakes. We’re going to need them.”

Mycroft nodded uneasily and began searching the car as he was told.

“We won’t be able to put enough distance between us before they get here,” Sherlock argued, glancing anxiously at the car across from them.

“Not with that attitude we won’t,” Molly said, undeterred. “I think I saw a wrench in by the door, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but grabbed the wrench dutifully, coming along beside her to help disconnect the car.

The thunderous rhythm of the train was deafening as they worked at the cold iron connecting the cars.

Working together, they were able to leverage the bolts loose.

Molly let out a delighted cheer as the metal couplings began to dislodge.

“Alright, now what?” Sherlock asked expectantly, helping her to her feet.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise as Molly unwound her scarf from her neck and tied it around her waist, handing the other end to him.

“There’s a lever up ahead that can divert the tracks,” she explained. “I’m going to climb out there and see if I can reach it. You secure this end and make sure I don’t fall.”

Sherlock blinked, looking from the length of knitted apparel in his hands and back to her.

“You’re insane, you know that, right?” Sherlock informed her.

“Yeah, maybe a little,” Molly laughed with a shrug. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

The sound of muffled orders grew more insistent. From the small window of the car’s door Sherlock could see one of the officers struggling against the mass of disrupted passengers and luggage, making his way towards them from the other end of the car. It would seem they’d been discovered...

“Not at the present,” Sherlock admitted.

He tied the scarf around his own waist before tethering them both to the doorway of the car. Grabbing her hand firmly in his, they edged out along the ledge of the car, reaching out as far as they could.

“Here it comes,” Molly announced. “Three...two...one...Now!”

Molly flung herself toward the lever, pulling it to one side with all her might.

The car lurched against the change in course, knocking her off balance. Sherlock yanked her back in to safety, sending her crashing into his chest.

He held her tightly to himself as they watched Magnussen’s officers stare dumbfoundedly from the train as it disappeared down the other tracks and around the mountainside.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he gasped.

“Me neither,” Molly breathed giddily.

Sherlock laughed despite himself and shook his head.

She laughed as well, her eyes alight, cheeks flushed from the cold as the wind tousled her hair about her face.

His eyes locked with hers and he found himself smiling in return, caught up in the thrill of it all.

As they caught their breath, Sherlock realized that he still held her pressed against him, his arms wrapped protectively around her middle, her fingers still clutching tightly to his shirt sleeves in a way he would chalk up to simple adrenaline. As he would the frantic beating of his heart.

Clearing this throat, he released her and stepped back inside the car.

“How are those brakes coming, Mycroft?” he asked as he untied Molly’s scarf from his torso, noticing their car was not slowing down.

“It...it seems they are a bit stuck,” Mycroft puffed from exertion as he grappled with the breaks.

With a final push, the wheel of the breaks turned sharply and broke off in his hands.

“Oh dear…”

“Nobody panic! We’ve got plenty of track. We can just coast to a stop,” Sherlock reminded them, as well as himself.

They all turned nervously to look out ahead of them.

The track dipped around the bend, revealing an unfinished bridge ahead of them at the bottom of the hill.

Molly swallowed at the sight.

“Shall we revisit your plan from earlier then?” she suggested.

Gathering their things quickly, they threw open the luggage door, this time to the welcome sight of powdered snow drifts.

“Alright...looks like this is our stop,” Sherlock announced.

Taking a steadying breath, they heaved themselves out onto the snow banks, their luggage strewn about them as their runaway train car careened down the track and over the edge.

Mycroft groaned as he sat up, brushing the snow from out of his collar. “Is everyone alright?”

There was a half hearted chorus of responses from Sherlock and Molly as they extracted themselves from the snow.

Sherlock looked about as he shook the flakes from his coat.

“There’s a village down at the bottom of this valley,” he pointed out.

“Then I propose we head there,” Mycroft replied, gathering his things and marching in that direction. “Where there is a village, there is also warm food. And with any luck, directions to the nearest bus station.”

Sherlock dusted off his bags and began to follow.

“Um, Sherlock?” Molly said.

He paused and turned back to her.

“I...I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did back there. You kind of saved my life. So...thanks,” Molly told him, adjusting her scarf as she fumbled for the words.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “Couldn’t lose you now. After all, we’re just getting started.”

He flashed her a warm grin as they fell into step with one another.

Not one to let a nice moment last, however, he commented, “You know, now would be an excellent time to start going over the history of the Cerceau family. I say we start at the beginning with Oskar the Great and work our way up the centuries to the present. You’ve finished reading those volumes, haven’t you?”

Molly groaned, rolling her eyes as she trudged up ahead to catch up with Mycroft, using up nearly every ounce of self control to not to pelt him with snowballs.

 

*******

Moriarty slammed the phone down on the receiver, stewing with rage.

_Typical incompetence..._

A soft knock sounded against his office door.

“WHAT?!” he shouted.

Private Collins poked his head in, timid as a church mouse.

“G-General Magnussen has requested you join him for tea this afternoon, s-sir,” he informed him.

Jim looked down at the picture of his father on his desk.

“I’m afraid I must decline,” he replied cooly, opening the drawer of his desk and pulling out his revolver.

He gave the barrel a spin, watching the light dance off it’s shining surface before holstering it.

“I have some unfinished business out of town that I need to attend to.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their journey takes them through the scenic countryside, Sherlock and Mycroft help Molly to study up on all that she needs to know to become Margareta. And as they rediscover facts from her old life, our travel companions also learn a bit more about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience everyone! Life has been a bit crazy, but I've been trying to find time to write little by little.  
> It's always a challenge (albeit a fun challenge!) to figure out just how to translate a song spanning lots of time into a narrative. Hopefully it turned out alright.  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> As always, I love hearing your thoughts, feelings, etc. in the comments!  
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.  
> Enjoy!!!

Molly took another bite of her sandwich as she poured over a book on the royal ancestry.

They’d found themselves a table a quiet little cafe in the sleepy village square.

The village itself was little more than a single square block of shops, but Molly found it charming. Comforting even.

The first blooms of spring lined the windowsills, unaware of the frigid cold that gripped the mountains beyond the little valley. Neighbors chatted over coffee while farmers came in for supplies, greeting the shopkeepers by name. It was a welcome change of pace from the excitement they’d just had.

Then again, it hadn’t been all bad…

Molly found her eyes drifting away from her book and across the cafe towards Sherlock, who was making friendly conversation with a man at the counter.

He glanced up and met her eyes with a subtle smile.

She found herself smiling in return.

Their narrow escape on the train had broken down a barrier between them, and looking at him now, Molly couldn’t help but feel that she was truly seeing Sherlock for the first time.

There was little denying that he was a handsome man. She’d thought so since their first meeting, though his arrogance and antagonist attitude towards her had quickly diminished his appeal in her eyes.

But that was before. Before she'd caught a glimpse of the man behind those cutting remarks and quicksilver eyes.

Now… now she couldn’t help but think he could be rather sweet. When he wasn’t being infuriating...

Molly forced her gaze back to her book, determined to finish the chapter.

She heaved a sigh, finding herself rereading the same paragraph for the third time.

Giving up, she peeked across the table at the letter Mycroft was completing.

“Who’s Anthea?” she asked curiously.

Mycroft cleared his throat, tucking the letter out of sight into a prepared envelope.

“An old friend,” he answered simply.

“Is that what we’re calling her now?” Sherlock teased as he came to join them. “Because I seem to remember a few poems you penned for her that painted a rather different picture.”

Molly suppressed a giggle, surprised at finding a blush creeping into Mycroft’s cheeks as he glared up at his brother.

“Come on,” Sherlock beckoned with a nod of his head, “I’ve arranged a ride to the bus station in the next town.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he packed up his things to follow.

“So who is she really?” Molly coaxed.

She looked up at him as they fell into step, eyes wide, pleading to be let in on the secret.

Mycroft maintained his austere visage, yet a hint of amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes, his resistance breaking.

Finally he sighed and answered with a rueful smile, “The love of my life.”

“Oh,” Molly replied, more questions than ever swimming in her head.

“I wasn’t always the man you see before you today,” he admitted conspiratorially, waving a hand at his patched and weather-worn clothes. “In fact, many years ago, I was a member of the royal court.”

“You were?” she breathed in awe.

“Hard to believe, I know,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I had Anthea to thank for it. When I was a much younger man, I found myself in a bit of a scrape--Well, more accurately, trying to get Sherlock out a scrape--when she came to my rescue and swept us up into her world. She was Princess Martha’s handmaid back then; a position with great connections for a lady in court. And Anthea knew how to use those connections well. She made my life more spectacular than I’d ever imagined it could be…”

He cleared his throat, remembering himself. “You’ll get to meet her once we arrive in London. She’s our best bet at gaining an audience with her highness.”

"You really think she’ll arrange a meeting for us?” Molly wondered, hopefully.

"We can only hope. I'm afraid it has been a long time…”

Mycroft looked up as they exited the cafe porch to see a farmer’s wagon filled with bales of hay and feed. As well as what appeared to be a live chicken...

He turned to Sherlock, who stood reclining against the wagon waiting for them.

“You can’t be serious...”

“It’s easier than walking,” Sherlock replied with a shrug, using his brother’s words against him. “And it’s free.”

“There is livestock on board,” Mycroft protested. “Surely we’ve been through enough substandard traveling already…”

“I don’t mind,” Molly assured them, climbing aboard the cart.

She greeted the old farmer perched in the driver’s seat before settling in amidst the hay, making comforting coos toward the chicken.

Sherlock grinned triumphantly, waving a hand toward the wagon. “After you, brother mine.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, finding a seat as far from the caged bird as possible.

The last of their bags loaded, Sherlock swung himself up onto the wagon and secured the back gate, giving the farmer the go-ahead to press onward.

“So,” he said as reclined comfortably on an available bag of feed, making himself at home. “We’ve successfully made it out of Bartovia and we are now back on track to arrive in London by the end of next week. Think you’re ready to start your life as the Grand Duchess Margareta?”

Molly breathed out a laugh. “A little late to turn back now, I suppose. It just...It doesn’t feel real yet, you know?"

“You’ll get there,” Mycroft assured her.

She nodded resolutely and pulled out her study materials, settling in for the ride.

Noting the crease forming on her brow, Mycroft lowered the edge of her book with a gentle hand. “Perhaps we can give these old tomes a break,” he offered. “You know, I remember a few stories about the royal family from my time in court. That is, if you’d care to hear them.”

Molly nodded eagerly, setting her book aside. “Please! Tell me everything.”

“Goodness, where to start…” He wondered, repositioning himself to better tell the tale. “Ah yes...You were born in the summer palace by the sea. It was the hottest day of the year. The servants were frantic trying to find some ice chips for your poor mother. As Anthea told it, Princess Martha had to corral your father out into the stables so the midwives could have a little peace to work.”

“The stables?” Molly wondered with a laugh.

“It was the only place they could get him to calm down. King Henry was an avid horseman,” Mycroft explained. “He made sure all the Cerceau children learned to ride. You were horseback when you were only three.”

“Horseback riding? Me?” Molly glanced at the dappled mare pulling their cart in disbelief.

“Of course! You even had your own horse. Oh, what was its name? I remember it was white…”

“Romeo,” Sherlock supplied.

“Yes, that was it!” Mycroft agreed.

“A horse named Romeo,” Molly pondered, picturing it.

“Beautiful steed. Almost as stubborn as his mistress as I remember it,” Mycroft recalled.

“To be fair, it’s a high bar to meet,” Sherlock teased.

Molly stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

“Oh your poor tutors, how you tormented them,” Mycroft chuckled sympathetically.

“Threw one of them in the brook,” Sherlock reminded Mycroft.

Mycroft smile grew, remembering. “That’s right! Charming little thing…”

“Was I wild?” she asked.

“Wrote the book,” Sherlock replied.

“But you’d behave when your father gave that look,” Mycroft added, arching a stern eyebrow in imitation.

Molly giggled. “I can imagine…”

“In all fairness, your tutors expected a great deal from you at such a young age. A little mischief was...understandable at times. And you certainly weren’t alone in your efforts,” Mycroft admitted. Smiling to himself he added, “There was one occasion in which you managed to cajole your Aunt Martha, both of your siblings, your sister’s piano instructor, two kitchen maids, and at least four footmen into joining you in a rousing game of sardines.”

Molly hummed thoughtfully, “That sounds nice."

After a moment, she asked, "And other children? My siblings...What were they like?"

Mycroft faltered a moment, surprised by the question. Considering his words, he answered,“Your brother Nicholas was a pleasant young man. Athletic like your father. Well spoken. Eager to learn. Even more eager to please. All part of being first in line for the throne, I suppose...You followed him around like a little duckling. Always requesting to ride around on his shoulders or be swung about by the arms.

“Your sister Anna was a soft spoken girl, but rather bright. I dare say you learned a great deal more from her than you did any of your tutors. Then again, she understood you better than they did."

"We got along then?" she wondered.

“They adored you, just as you did them,” Mycroft assured her.

Molly nodded wistfully, tucking her legs up to hug her knees closer to herself. "I wish I remembered them. I always thought it would be nice to have a sibling. Someone you could depend on. It was always so lonely at the orphanage. You never knew how long anyone would be there…" She sat back to watch the scenery roll by before adding sincerely, "You two are lucky to have each other."

The brothers shared a look tinged with emotions varying from guilt to gratitude, yet neither could find the words to reply.

 

One countryside town bled into another as the days flew by in a whirlwind of hitched rides, bus trips, and aching feet. And with every step, the lifetime’s worth of information she had to learn became a little easier to retain, a little closer to familiar...

Molly dozed contentedly as they rode the evening bus through the north of France after a long day on foot.

"Pop quiz!" Sherlock announced, plopping himself down in the seat next to her.

Molly groaned sleepily in reply, not even bothering to open her eyes. "Is it on the difference between a macaron and a macaroon?"

"Nope!" he replied, popping the 'p' for emphasis as he pulled out his checklist. "Members of court."

Molly grimaced and fumbled to throw one of their smaller bags at him.

Sherlock smiled, catching it easily.

"Just a few rapid fire features and you can go back to sleep," he promised.

Molly heaved a tired sigh. "Fine…"

He smirked triumphantly. "The Baron Pushkin."

"He was…" Molly rubbed her eyes and gestured vaguely, searching for the word.

"Short," Sherlock supplied. "Count Anatoly…"

"Had a…thing." She tapped her nose.

"A wart. And it was on the other side."

"Maybe it moved," Molly mumbled.

Sherlock chuckled, glancing over top of his list. "Doubtful."

Molly hummed in amusement at the thought, a soft smile playing on her lips.

His eyes lingered on her face, the way the evening sun played on her lashes and in her hair, setting alight their amber hues...

He pushed the thought aside. "Count Sergei?"

She yawned and stretched. "Always wore a feathered hat."

"Pompous man...I hear he's gotten rather fat in his old age," Mycroft commented with a wicked smirk from behind his newspaper in the next row.

"Says the man who ate the last of our macaroons," Sherlock ribbed.

Molly hummed sleepily. "Just like buttercup."

Mycroft looked up from his paper. "Buttercup?"

"Mmhm. Sergei's cat." Molly yawned again as she repositioned. "Big ol' roly poly yellow fluff ball... Always getting into the sweets on the tea tray. Though she preferred shortbread…"

Molly trailed off as she drifted back to sleep.

Mycroft looked over at Molly than at Sherlock, blinking in disbelief.

"I don't believe we told her that…"

 

The day finally arrived when they boarded the overnight steamer that would carry them across the channel to London.

Butterflies churned Molly’s stomach as she stepped up to the gangplank, the sea air suddenly making her feel clammy.

She took a steadying breath, gripping the handle of her bags tightly in hopes of keeping her hands from shaking.

“Here.” Sherlock came beside her and gently took the bags from her before handing her a large box.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Thought you could use a new dress for your meeting with Anthea tomorrow,” he replied.

“You bought me a dress?” Molly peeked inside the box curiously. “...How’d you know my size?”

“Molly, please…” Sherlock smirked as he walked past her up the gangplank past. “I’m a detective, remember?”

Molly smiled and rolled her eyes.

She lifted her head high and followed after him, her nerves nearly forgotten.

 

Molly turned this way and that, taking in the look of the dress on her petite frame from the little mirror inside their shared cabin.

It was a simple garment, but in that moment she felt it was as elegant as any ball gown.

She smiled to herself as she watched the soft cotton twirl about her ankles with each movement she made.

Smoothing a hand over her hair, Molly gave her reflection a satisfied nod and stepped outside.

As she came up on deck, she was surprised to hear music being played.

Molly covered a giggle as her eyes found Sherlock playing his violin, exchanging riffs back and forth with one of the deck hands as they improvised a Scottish jig.

She applauded enthusiastically as their song came to a close, alerting the musicians to her presence.

Sherlock looked up, blinking in surprise, his mind seeming to falter for a brief moment before a soft smile quirked across his face.

“Now you are dressed for a ball!” Mycroft declared approvingly, taking in her new apparel. “And you shall learn to dance for one as well. Sherlock, come here.”

Mycroft took the instrument from his brother's hand before giving him a shove towards Molly.

“Do you know any waltzes, by chance?” he asked the deck hand.

The man nodded in the affirmative and lifted his instrument to play.

“Excellent.”

“Waltzes?” Molly gulped nervously.

“It really isn’t that hard,” Sherlock assured her.

Seeing that Mycroft was rather insistent, he offered Molly his hand.

“If you say so…” Molly replied, unconvinced, placing her hand in his.

“Trust me, if he can learn to do it, _you_ can learn to do it,” Mycroft asserted, stepping in to adjust their position. “There. Now, we will start simply. Step and one, two, three. One, two, three. Let Sherlock take the lead, Molly. And don’t just step but try to _float_.”

“I feel a little silly. Am I floating?” Molly wondered, focusing on her feet.

“Not quite,” Sherlock chuckled. “Here…”

He adjusted his hold on her waist so that his hand was more securely anchored at the center of her back. “Try not to overthink it. Just follow the music.”

They stepped slowly in time, Sherlock guiding her through the steps.

“Better,” Mycroft commented, keeping a sharp eye trained on their every move. “Eyes up, Molly. You can trust Sherlock not to step on your toes.”

“It isn’t my toes that I am worried about,” she replied.

Molly forced herself to look up from her shoes to meet Sherlock’s eyes with a shy smile.

“See? This isn’t so bad, is it?” Sherlock said encouragingly.

“No, I suppose it's not.” Molly smiled, growing more comfortable with each step. “And that sunset is incredible.”

She looked out over the water as the sun shimmered across the waves.

Sherlock glanced over at the horizon, but his eyes quickly drifted back to her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured in agreement.

Clearing his throat, he went on "You know, I fancied the idea of becoming a pirate when I was younger.”

“A pirate?” Molly wondered, looking back at him curiously.

“Sure! Adventure on the wide open sea. No rules to follow but your own. It all sounded rather appealing when I was a boy.”

Molly nodded, considering the idea.

After a moment she suggested, "You still could if you really wanted to.”

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. "Not the same without the billowing sails and Captain Blackbeard charging across the port bow, is it?”

"I guess not,” Molly laughed. “Still, I think you would have made an excellent pirate.”

"I got closer than I thought…Detective work has proven to have its fair share of adventure,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully.

“Well you’ve certainly made my life more of an adventure,” she murmured.

She looked up and held his gaze. “And I’m glad of it.”

He felt his heart skip a beat, an unfamiliar warmth filling his chest.

“Then I’m glad of it, too.”

From the edge of the deck, Mycroft watched with pride as Sherlock twirled Molly across the deck with ease.

She’d truly come into her own under his tutelage. She was the picture of grace and confidence. Even in a simple cotton frock she looked like royalty. She was positively glowing...

He looked again, this time focusing on the faces of the two dancers before him.

He knew that look… The softness of their smiles, the light in their eyes, the lingering gazes, the way they seemed drawn to each others’ touch.

Oh, dear...

Yes, he knew that look rather well.

_Love…_

How could he have missed this? He should have seen something like this coming.

A pit settled in his stomach as he realized that he _had_ seen this, or at least the smallest hints of it.

Yet in his drive to check all their boxes, to prepare Molly for the task ahead, to get the job _done_ he had completely dismissed sentiment, as he so often did these days…

And yet it was sentiment that was the very thing that had gotten them to where they were in the first place.

Looking at them now, he could see there was very little that could be done about it. There was no turning back. Not anymore.

Love! His brother _loved_ her, whether he realized it yet or not. Mycroft could see it clear as day. The way he looked at her. The way he held her...

And it seemed very likely that she felt the same.

Mycroft let out a sigh.

He hadn't accounted for this in their plans.

This complicated everything.

_How will we get through this?_

Unaware of the scrutiny they were under, Molly and Sherlock swayed and spun across the deck as the sun dipped lower into the waves, settling more comfortably into each other with each step.

There was something very natural about the feel of her in his arms, Sherlock thought.

The way his hand fit around hers, the curve of her back beneath his palm. It just seemed... _right._

His thumb trailed absently across the soft fabric of the back of her dress.

“That, um, that dress looks nice on you, by the way,” he commented after a while. “I mean, it seemed nice enough on the hanger, but the color really suits you. You should wear it sometime.”

“I am wearing it,” Molly reminded him cheekily.

“Right. Of course, of course,” he laughed at himself, fumbling. “I just was trying to give you a, um--”

“Compliment?” Molly supplied.

“Of course,” he replied softly.

Molly smiled softly, her cheeks warming slightly. “Thank you.”

Her heart beat in her chest as his arms guided her with each turn, each step. She was starting to understand the feeling of floating.

“Sherlock?” she said after a time.

“Hm?”

“I’m feeling a little dizzy…”

“Kind of light headed?” he murmured, looking down at her.

“Yeah…”

He swallowed and nodded. “Me too...Probably from all the spinning.”

Their steps slowed to a halt, yet his hands lingered, steadying her.

“Maybe we should stop,” he suggested.

“I think we have stopped,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Molly, I…”

His gazed down at her, eyes flitting to her lips.

But before he could finish his thought, they were called back to reality by the sound of applause from Mycroft and their seafaring musician.

“Well done, both of you,” Mycroft complimented.

Sherlock let his hands drop away from her.

“Thank you for the dance, Molly,” Sherlock said.

He gave her a brief nod before walking away, collecting his violin before going below deck.

Molly’s eyes followed after him, surprised by the sudden emptiness she felt with him no longer at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with the game, Sardines is like hide and seek in reverse. One person hides then everyone else tries to find them, joining them in their hiding space until you're all packed together (like sardines!) and there is only one person left. Lots of fun!  
> As always, I love hearing from you in the comments!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their journey continues to London, where our heroes find themselves reunited with their past as they face their next steps towards the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the long wait. I had most of this written a while ago with only a scene or two to go...And then tech week hit and my life has been consumed with volunteering at the local theater ever since. But I had a few minutes and was able to finish this chapter! So here it is!  
> Hope you enjoy it.  
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Will go back and fix them as I find them, but I'm impatient and excited to get this installment out there for you...  
> Comments are always appreciated! Hearing your thoughts makes the writing process all the more fun for me.

By the time Molly and Mycroft returned to their cabin, Sherlock was already reclining on his makeshift cot, his eyes closed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His face was serene, yet not quite sleeping. No, there was a focus underneath the calm.

“What is it that he’s doing when he’s like that?” Molly wondered, combing a hand through her hair as she readied herself for bed.

“Organizing his mind palace. It’s how he sorts through details of a case,” Mycroft explained.

“Are you sure he’s alright there?” Molly looked over in concern at the uncomfortable looking sleeping arrangement.

“He’ll be fine. Sherlock has the uncanny ability of being able to sleep anywhere,” Mycroft assured her. He grimaced as the boat rocked beneath them, gripping the ladder to the top bunk. “Personally, I will be incredibly happy when we are all back on dry land.”

Molly smiled up at him sympathetically.

The boat rocked again, tipping one of Sherlock’s bags on its side, spilling its contents.

Molly leaned over to collect them, folding them up neatly.

As she reached inside to replace them, a small decorative box towards the bottom of the bag caught her eye.

“What’s this?” she asked curiously, taking it out for a closer look.

Mycroft glanced down from his bunk.

“That?” he replied. “Sherlock found that little thing at the palace years ago. I’m surprised at how long he’s kept it...Perhaps he’s been saving it for you.”

He smiled conspiratorially down at her.

Molly giggled.

“First a new dress and now another present? If you boys aren’t careful, you’re going to spoil me.”

“You’ll be a princess again soon enough. You’ll have to get used to being spoiled now and then, I’m afraid,” he teased amicably.

She turned the box in her hand, thoughtfully running her thumb along it’s smooth edge as she inspected it.

There was something about it she couldn’t quite place…

She jumped as Sherlock stirred slightly on his cot and returned it to his bag.

If he meant to give it to her, he would do so in his own time, she reasoned. Until then it wasn’t her place to snoop.

She adjusted the chain of her necklace until it sat comfortably on her neck before climbing into bed herself.

“Good night, Mycroft. Sweet dreams,” she said softly to the mattress above her.

Mycroft chuckled. “Goodnight, your highness.”

Molly pressed her lips together to contain a laugh, still not used to the address, even as a term of endearment.

Molly closed her eyes and listened to the soft sound of the waves outside their walls. Soon enough, she found herself drifting off to sleep...

 

The sun shone brightly as Molly sat up amidst a field of wildflowers, gazing up at the pillowy clouds drifting lazily above her.

She let out a laugh in surprise as someone behind her placed a floral crown on her head.

Craning her neck back, she saw a girl of about fifteen smiling down at her, her hair a near match for Molly’s own tresses.

The girl tapped her finger against the tip of Molly’s nose playfully, eliciting a giggle from Molly’s lips.

Shel looked up as a young man called out to them from across the field.

“Anna! Come on you two!”

“Race you!” Anna grinned, getting to her feet.

Molly laughed as she clumsily clammored to catch up with her, finding herself quickly falling behind.

From out of nowhere, she felt herself being swept up in the air by a pair of strong arms.

Molly looked up, coming face to face with the young man from before, his familiar warm brown eyes meeting hers with an easy grin.

He gave her a wink before tossing her over his shoulder and setting off at a run.

“Nicholas! No fair!” Anna protested as they past her.

Nicholas only laughed and ran faster.

When he finally set her down, he gave Molly a little spin, turning her to face the other way.

She gasped in awe at the sight of a grand ballroom filled with people.

“Come on!” he beckoned, leading the way down the set of grand stairs, now dressed in a tailored royal uniform.

Anna joined him, clothed in a stunning ball gown, giving Molly's hand an affectionate squeeze as she past her on the stairway.

Molly looked down to see what seemed like an endless length of full, beaded silk flowing from her waist and down to the floor.

When she looked up again, her companions were much farther ahead, nearly disappearing into the crowd.

“Wait up!” Molly laughed, gathering her skirts and rushing to follow.

As she reached the dance floor, she looked about, trying to find them.

She stepped carefully through the massive crowd, yet they were nowhere to be found.

Everywhere she looked there was only a swirling mass of skirts and jacket tails.

When had everyone gotten so tall?

Just as she was beginning to feel lost and overwhelmed, Molly felt her heart soar at the sight of a familiar couple dancing together across the room.

They called out to her, their gazes warm and loving.

Her parents…

Molly pushed through the crowd to follow them.

By the time she’d reached the edge of the ballroom, she saw them wave to her before disappearing through a distant doorway with Nicholas and Anna.

“Wait!” Molly called out, running after them.

She flung the doors open wide, only to step into a dark, empty corridor.

Molly shivered, hugging her arms tightly about her middle as she stepped anxiously forward, looking around for any sign of them.

The hall felt incredibly still compared to the crowded ballroom. Abandoned…

She sighed in relief as she saw a figure standing at the end of the hall. Gathering her skirts, she rushed towards them.

Her steps faltered as a deafening gunshot echoed around her.

She looked up this time finding not one figure standing before her, but two.

One, a man she’d only seen in pictures. A man whose name was spoken in hushed and wary, dreadfilled tones.

Charles Magnussen…

He looked her up and down, his cold eyes boring into her.

Magnussen snapped his fingers at the man standing in front of him in silent command before walking into the shadows and out of sight.

The other man turned to face her, his eyes glinting in the dark.

“Jim?” she breathed.

“Gotcha,” he said with a smirk before leveling a gun at her chest.

“NO!” Molly cried out.

 

“No!”

Sherlock sat up, rubbing his face groggily.

Across the cabin, Molly tossed restlessly in her bunk, mumbling in her sleep.

“No, please, no!”

Sherlock shot up from his cot, rushing to her side.

“Hey,” he whispered, trying rouse her from her nightmare.

Molly twisted frantically, still protesting against the figment that plagued her.

“Molly, it’s me. Wake up.” Sherlock took hold of her arms, giving her a gentle shake.

She let out a gasp as her eyes flew open wide, staring up at him.

“It’s just me. It’s alright. It was only a nightmare.”

He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead as she sat up, his hand drifting to cup her cheek, eyes locked with hers as she gulped in a breath, trembling under his touch.

Her eyes welled with tears, spilling over.

In an instant she collapsed into him, clinging tightly to his shirt, quiet sobs falling against his chest.

“It’s alright. I’m here,” he shushed, pulling her gently into his arms until she was cradled in his lap. “You’re safe now. I’m here. I’m here.”

He held her close, her head tucked under his chin as he rubbed soothing circles along her back until her ragged breaths slowly became more even.

“Do...do you want to talk about it?” he asked, feeling out of his depth.

She shook her head, still holding fast to him.

“I...I don’t remember. There’s just these hazy glimpses and faces…” she managed.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “You’re okay.”

She nodded and rested her head against his collarbone.

He felt her hold ease on his shirt, her arms drifting to encircle his torso, anchoring herself there.

A small smile tugged at his lips at the sound of her contented sigh, feeling her relax against him.

With his arms around her, he could tell that she finally felt safe. Comforted. Cared for…

Sherlock couldn’t help but feel glad that he the one to give her that.

He _wanted_ to be the one to make her feel that way...

And in that moment, neither of them could bring themselves to let go.

 

They arrived in London the following morning, a taxi depositing them in front of a row of luxury townhouses in the city.

“Do you think Anthea will recognize me?” Molly wondered.

“It’s possible. You spent a lot of time around her when you were little,” Sherlock replied.

She worried her lip, looking up at the stately homes. “What if she doesn’t? Or-or what if I don’t remember something? What was it that Uncle Vanya liked with his vodka, again?”

“More vodka. And don’t worry about remembering everything. That’s what you’ve got me for. Just be yourself. You _are_ Margareta after all,” Sherlock assured her.

“Be myself. Right…” Molly nodded.

She looked up to see Mycroft had stopped in front of what she assumed was their intended address, a hand resting hesitantly on the gate as he anxiously fiddled with his pocket watch, his eyes fixed on the door.

“Are you alright, Mycroft?” she asked.

“Hm? Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat, giving her a nod, but his eyes returned quickly to the doorway, still rooted in place at the gate.

“Are you planning on going up there or are we just admiring the architecture today?” Sherlock wondered, egging him on.

“No, no. Quite right,” Mycroft replied, seeming to gather his courage.

He swallowed, gripping the gate. “It’s just...It’s just been such a long time…”

“Getting longer by the minute,” Sherlock muttered.

Molly elbowed him in the side.

“Be nice,” she reprimanded.

“Right then.” Mycroft nodded resolutely.

He opened the gate and marched up to the door.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he lifted the knocker, giving it a tap.

He glanced back at where the two of them stood waiting on the sidewalk, desperately seeking encouragement.

Molly grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

Mycroft smiled nervously, turning back as a buxom maid answered the door.

“Hello, miss. Is Lady Anthea at home, by chance?”

“I’ve got it, Sophie! I’ve got it!” a voice called from inside.

The maid stood aside as an elegant woman in her mid-thirties stepped into the doorway, her chestnut hair framing her face as she looked up at him.

“Anthea,” he breathed, taking in the sight of her.

“Mycroft.”

She smiled with a sweetness that did not reach her eyes before promptly shutting the door in his face.

Sherlock and Molly shared a look.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Molly whispered.

Sherlock shrugged. “I expected worse.”

“You did?” Molly wondered in bewilderment.

“Honestly...I didn’t know what to expect,” he admitted.

Mycroft knocked on the door again, recovering from the shock.

“Anthea, please open the door. I-I know it’s been some time, but we’ve come such a long way.”

The door flung open wide as Anthea glared up at him.

“Fifteen years. _Fifteen years_ I haven’t heard from you! And you expect that you can just drop me a note out of the blue, waltz up to my door, and I will welcome you in with open arms?”

She poked a finger angrily into his chest.

“Well I…” Mycroft fumbled.

“Fifteen years, Mycroft!” she cut him off, stepping out of the doorway to propel him back down the steps and out onto the walkway, somehow managing to tower over him despite the several inches in height Mycroft had on her. “Not a word! Just a few scribbled lines of a hasty adieu and then _nothing_ in all that time...”

“I--” he tried again weakly but to no avail as she kept going.

“Did you know I used every contact I still had in Bartovia trying to find you? The months I spent waiting for any sort of word on if you were alive or dead! They told me that you’d been captured. That you were to be executed....And then word came that you’d escaped. No one could find you after that...And I understood! I understood that you had to lay low for a while. I understood that it would take time. But it didn’t mean that I didn’t wonder...That I didn’t hope…”

She blinked away tears, looking away as her wrath began to cool.

Hesitantly, Mycroft took her hand in his.

“I cannot tell you the number of letters I started over the years, my love. I have long lost track...It was too dangerous to write to you at first. I couldn’t risk it.”

“Because you knew I would come after you,” Anthea replied knowingly.

He smiled ruefully. “You certainly would have tried. But it wasn’t safe. And you had other matters to attend to then. Others who needed to come before me... And I had Sherlock to look after. We both had a great deal on our plates…”

“That didn’t mean that we had to face it alone,” she told him.

He nodded humbly. “No...No, you’re right. I’ve been a fool to stay away for so long.”

“Yes you have.” She met his eyes, arching an eyebrow. “I certainly hope you didn’t expect that I would simply sit around and wait for you.”

“No! No, I never expected that you would. Selfishly hoped and even prayed, perhaps, but never expected…”he replied quietly. “I understand if you wish to send me away. I...I  suppose I waited so long because...well, because I wanted to be _worthy_ of you the next time we met."

Her expression finally softened. “You always have been.”

“Only because you said so,” he murmured self-deprecatingly.

“And it is my say so that matters! Not worthy...Of all the rubbish I’ve ever heard. Shame on you, Mycroft Holmes, for doubting my judgment.”

He smiled softly down at her, cradling her hands in his. “I swear it will never happen again. Forgive me?”

Anthea played at mulling it over before replying slyly. “I suppose...If you kiss me properly.”

“Later,” he promised, clearly fighting the temptation. “But first, I’ve brought someone that I think you should meet.”

He led her by the hand out to the side walk, gesturing to Molly. “May I introduce her royal highness, the Grand Duchess Margareta Cerceau.”

Molly smiled shyly as Anthea stared at her in shock. “Oh my...She certainly does look like Margareta, doesn’t she? But then, so did the others.”

“Others?” Molly wondered quietly, turning to Sherlock.

“Not everyone is as well intentioned as you, I’m afraid,” he whispered.

Anthea turned her attention on him next. “And this must be little Sherlock. You’ve grown since I saw you last.”

“Yes, well, puberty will do that,” he quipped, clasping his hands behind his back. A smirk quirked across his face as he glanced pointedly at the gate. “May we come in?”

“Yes, of course!” Anthea opened the gate promptly. “Come in, come in!”

Anthea ushered them inside, taking their coats.

“Did you come all this way without any luggage?” she asked, handing their coats to the maid.

“Dropped it at the hotel before we came here,” Sherlock replied.

Anthea shook her head. “That won’t due. Sophie? Have Mr. McAllister go to Mr. Holmes’ hotel to collect our guests things.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to impose,” Mycroft protested mildly.

She leveled a serious look up at him. “After fifteen years of having you ripped away from me, I shall scarcely have you staying anywhere else. Now stop poo-pooing my generosity.”

She smoothed a hand affectionately over his tie before turning to address the maid again.

“We’ll take tea in the parlour. Please see to it that these gentlemen are given something to eat while we do. Perhaps some gingernuts, if we can manage it. I seem to recall those were a favorite.”

“Yes, my lady.” Sophie nodded, setting off towards the kitchen.

“We’re not taking tea with you?” Mycroft asked, confused.

“Certainly not!” Anthea replied, linking her arm with Molly’s. “Her highness and I are going to have a quiet chat to get reacquainted, _undisturbed._ I trust that you won’t run off in that time.”

She gave him a wink and led Molly down the hall.

“I hope they have been treating you well,” Anthea said to Molly.

“Um, yes they have, your ladyship,” Molly replied, glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock.

“I’ll be right outside,” he whispered reassuringly.

She smiled nervously before following Anthea inside the parlour, the door closing behind them.

Sherlock’s shoulders deflated as the latch clicked shut.

Glancing about the hall, he followed after them, stationing himself against the wall to better listen in.

“So tell me, where have you been all this time?” he heard Anthea ask.

“St. Arthur’s orphanage for the majority of it...” Molly replied.

“Mm. I remember that one. Dreadful place. Horrendously organized. I remember Martha fighting tooth and nail to get any responses from their headmistress. Positively dreadful...Forgive me. Would you like one sugar or two with your tea?”

“Just lemon is fine, actually...I believe that is how Aunt Martha takes it as well.”

“Indeed, it is…”

Mycroft came alongside Sherlock, arching a questioning brow as his brother pressed his ear to the wall. “I take it we are to be enjoying our biscuits in the hallway this afternoon, then?”

“Like you’re not the least bit curious…” Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft nodded, accepting this as his answer.

“I’ll see about getting us a glass from the kitchen.”

The minutes turned into hours as the two men waited outside the parlour door, listening with bated breath.

“Now forgive me for asking if this is a painful question, but tell me,” Anthea asked. “How did you escape on the night of the siege at the palace?”

Sherlock sat up from where he’d been reclining next to the door.

They’d never covered this…

He ran a hand through his hair with a groan, leaning his head back against the wall.

Still, he listened intently as he heard Molly begin to speak, curious what she would come up with.

“There...there was a boy,” Molly said thoughtfully.  “We were trapped inside my room and he...he opened a wall.”

He heard Molly begin to laugh.

“I’m sorry. That’s terribly silly, isn’t it? Walls opening…”

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and set down his glass on the hall table, his mind racing.

“What is it?” Mycroft wondered.

“It’s her...Mycroft, we found her,” Sherlock breathed.

“What are you talking about?”

Just then, the door clicked open, sending the two of them scrambling back, assuming a casual posture at a more reasonable distance from the doorway.

“Gentlemen,” Anthea greeted with a knowing smirk.

Molly came to stand by Sherlock’s side, a smile of relief on her lips.

“How did she do?” Mycroft asked.

“She answered every question…” Anthea replied vaguely.

“Yes, but how did she do?” Mycroft pressed. “Is she a Cerceau?”

Anthea met his eyes pointedly, a silent conversation transpiring between them.

Mycroft’s face broke out into a grin.

“Really?” Molly breathed.

Anthea nodded. “I believe so.”

Molly let out a squeal of delight, throwing her arms around Sherlock in her excitement.

“Oh!” Sherlock let out, caught off guard at the impact, his thoughts still whirling.

He managed a smile as she grinned up at him before moving to hug Mycroft as well. “Congratulations.”

“So when can we see her Highness?” Mycroft asked.

Anthea’s face fell slightly. “I’m not sure that you can.”

“What do you mean?” he wondered.

“This has been very hard on Martha. Harder than she ever imagined,” Anthea explained. She looked sympathetically at Molly. “You’re not the first young woman I’ve met with claiming to Margareta. Though they came with more notice. Scheduled appointments… Every time Martha would get her hopes up and every time I had to turn them away and break her heart all over again. I don’t know that she will agree to another meeting. She’s been disappointed too many times. I'm not sure her heart can take it.”

“But she won’t be disappointed this time,” Mycroft reminded her gently.

Anthea stepped closer to Molly, looking her over carefully, reading her. “Say you do get a meeting...What is it that you want to come of it?”

“I just want to see her,” Molly replied honestly. “I’ve wondered who my family is for so long. One meeting is all I ask.”

Anthea nodded thoughtfully, considering her response carefully.  “Princess Martha and I will be attending the ballet tomorrow evening. I can see about possibly arranging something then.”

Molly smiled and took Anthea’s hand earnestly. “Thank you, your ladyship.”

Anthea smiled softly. “Call me Anthea, please...You always did before.”

An older man in a butler’s uniform entered the hall and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Mr. McAllister?” Anthea asked.

“There was a telegram left at the hotel for Mr. Holmes, my lady. A Mr. and Mrs. Watson have arrived in town and have requested that our guests join them for dinner at their earliest convenience. They also send regards from…” he glanced at the telegram in his hands “‘Wittle Toby’.”

Molly’s smile widened even farther at the mention of the little kitten.

“The Watson’s have been looking after a stray kitten Molly had recently rescued,” Mycroft explained to Anthea.

“It was so kind of them. And a good thing too! Can you imagine the train ride with that little one in tow?” Molly laughed. “Do you suppose we could see them tonight? I’m ever so eager to thank them.”

“Of course!” Anthea replied. “Mr. McAllister, please inform the Watsons’ that we would be delighted to dine with them this evening. And have Sophie send over some flowers as well. Something feline friendly, of course. We wouldn’t want the little dear to get into trouble after coming all this way.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mr. McAllister replied. “Shall I book a table at Chez Nouveau?”

“Please do.”

Anthea turned to Molly with a gleam in her eye. “What would you say to a little afternoon shopping trip? My treat, I insist!”

“That sounds wonderful!” Molly beamed.

“Excellent! Let me get my things and we can be off in a jiffy.” She gave Molly a pleased smile before heading down the hall.

“Shopping in London! Can you believe it?” Molly laughed excitedly, practically dancing out of her shoes.

“You’ll be in good hands. Anthea has impeccable taste,” Mycroft assured her.

“Well of course, she does! She’s rather fond of you, isn’t she?” Molly teased.

Mycroft scoffed, waving her off as an attempt to hide how pleased he really was.

“Shall I show you to your room, miss?” Sophie offered.

“Yes, thank you,” Molly replied, following after her. She turned back and whispered excitedly. “Shopping. In _London!”_

The two men smiled as they watched her go. Yet Sherlock’s quickly fell once she was out of sight.

"Congratulations, brother mine. Your ridiculous plan worked," Mycroft praised. "Thank heavens Molly was able to convince Anthea. I don't know what we would have done if she hadn't. But did she ever rise to the task! _I_ almost believed her...you don't seem pleased."

"Molly is the genuine article, Mycroft," Sherlock replied with a sigh. "I was the boy at the palace that night."

Mycroft sat down on the hall bench.

"We really did it then. We found the lost Princess Margareta. Molly has finally found her family…" he murmured, awestruck. He looked up in concern at his brother. "And you…"

"Will be fine," Sherlock cut in. "It's not like we planned on making many social calls once this was all settled."

"You're sure about that?" Mycroft couldn't help but wonder.

Mr. McAllister appeared before Sherlock could reply. "Lady Anthea has requested I escort you both to the tailor. You'll be needing tuxes for the next few evenings."

"Of course." Sherlock nodded, seizing the opportunity to escape the conversation. "Shall we?"


End file.
